The Case of the Puffer Fish
by CorvidCoccinelle
Summary: Sherlock Holmes faces his most personal problem yet. If he and John Watson don't solve this case someone close to him is going to get a life sentence. Can the world's only consulting detective and his partner Dr John Watson solve the mystery in time?
1. No Rules Holiday

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

The hotel is flash, really flash. I can just imagine my dad if we brought him somewhere like this. He'd be pulling faces and making jokes because, deep down, he'd feel he didn't belong in this world, with these people. I'm not sure I do either to be honest but it's where Art has booked us in and I'm going along with it. It's obvious these are the sort of circles Art is used to moving in. His polite but fairly dismissive way with the staff as they bustle about him is something to watch.

I find myself doing a lot of that these days, watching him. He's endlessly fascinating. His attention span is short but when it's focussed on you there's something that makes you feel like there's no one else in the world. Colours get warmer, rooms get smaller. I'd love to have that sort of charisma, I think, as I observe him charming the receptionist who is passing him the key fob to our room, tossing her hair and playing with her earring. If I had an ounce of that allure, a fraction of his magnetism, I'd be charming criminals out of the trees. I'd have the station bosses eating out of the palm of my hand and I'd have a bigger bloody office for a start.

I stand for another minute, looking at the lavish decor and listening vaguely to Art's manipulation of events until things are just how he wants them. He turns and smiles and the focus is back on me. It makes me sweat when he looks at me like that, under his lashes and that big smile.

"Room 217, like in 'The Shining!" he grins. I nod and wave my arm towards the lift. Once the doors he grabs my hand. He smiles at me and strokes my palm with his thumb. I have the, now familiar, warm feeling of happiness, this easy comfort I find in his presence. He squeezes my hand.

"What are you thinking?" He asks me this a lot, like he wants to be inside my head. It's refreshing that he asks me, doesn't try to second guess or anticipate like the girlfriends I've had in the past. It's straightforward and I appreciate it.

"Just thinking it's nice to have a holiday. It seems like ages since I've taken any time off." I rub my free hand over my face, I'm knackered, I could sleep for a week.

"We can go straight to bed now if you like?" I look at my watch and laugh.

"It's half twelve! We only just got here!" He grins and leans against my arm.

"We can go to bed, have a nap and see what time we want to get up. This is a 'no rules' holiday Geoff. If we want to spend the whole week in bed, sleeping, then we can. It's your time off." There's something so thoughtful, so bloody caring and caring about _me_, in his expression and his words, that I feel this huge emotion swelling inside me. I express it the best way I can. I pull him in close so I can kiss him. I feel a growl in my chest as I crush his lips with my mouth, prising them open with my tongue, tasting the unique flavour of Art Douglas.

I don't stop kissing him until the lift stops. By that time his hands are in my hair and mine are about his waist, holding him tightly to me.

"You're right Art, we should go to bed." I growl and he grins.

"Yes, officer." I smile.

We get inside the room, I let go of him just long enough to get the door open and I ignore all the fancy decorations, the opulence and the expense and I make for the bed. I fall back and pull him over me. For a while I let him kiss me, he pushes his hips down at me and he gasps as he feels how hard I am against his thigh. My breath is ragged and so is his. I love this, that animal, raw emotion we have, the urge to fuck and be fucked, no niceties, no messing about.

I roll him over and take off my shirt. His hands are on my chest rubbing my nipples and sending electricity shooting through me. I push them away and pull up his t shirt; I press my mouth to his chest and bite down. He groans and thrusts up from the bed. The fabric of my trousers, the feeling of his warm skin on my tongue flood me with sensations. I unfasten and pull down his trousers, his shorts. We are desperate, impatient. His golden blonde hair flattened to his forehead with the effort of our writhing bodies. He is so fucking edible, so perfect. That dimple chin, the full mouth open and gasping, moaning my name. His tanned skin, muscles in smooth curves beneath it. Like a model, or a statue. All sex and fire.

His erection springs free of his shorts as I pull them down.

"God, yes, Geoff," he pants looking down at me as I lick my lips and slide down his body. I flick my tongue against him, still marvelling at the complete ease with which I have adjusted to having sex with this man. Because yes, he's pretty, devastatingly so, but he's definitely a man.

I try to get the angle right to take him into my mouth; it's trickier than it looks. I shuffle my body along the bed a little, trying to swallow as much as I can of him. My hand takes up those last inches and I stroke in time with my lips, he starts to buck. I put my hand on his hip to hold him still and he moans. I allow myself a little smile. This is how I realised exactly what position Art liked to take in bed. That hand on his hip, originally to stop him thrusting too far, making me gag, just made him more turned on, more desperate. Now I use it mercilessly.

He's going to come; I can feel the tension in his body, the small erratic movements of his hips. He grabs my hair, strokes my head, mumbles and whispers my name.

"Oh Geoff, oh my goodness, oh, oh." He comes suddenly, slightly before I am ready, and I swallow quickly. Even though the taste of him is growing on me, it still surprises me. It's better than that awful latex taste of the condoms we used before John suggested we got ourselves tested.

I wait until he calms down. I move back up the bed and he curls into my arm.

"Oh my goodness? Art, you are such a toff!" I laugh, kissing him hungrily. He returns the kisses, shuddering with his come down. He sniggers.

"Sorry, I don't think very well when you do that." I nod and lie back on the pillow.

"Fair enough." I say, smiling at the ceiling.

"Do you want me to..?" He rubs his hand down my chest, stopping at my waistband. I lift my head and look at him; he looks tired, happy and drowsy. I kiss his forehead.

"Maybe later eh? No rules holiday remember? I'm enjoying the lying here." He closes his eyes and nods, cheek against my upper arm. I flick the duvet up with my foot and cover us both, semi dressed.

Dr. John Watson's POV

You know that phrase? 'Like child in a sweetshop'? I think I've just found the epitome of that phrase. It's over there behind the rack of riding crops, paddles and canes. His face is alight with excitement and he's picking things up and swishing them about dangerously, narrowly avoiding other customers. The enormous Viking looking bloke, dressed entirely in rubber, behind the counter is smiling at us both indulgently. It's a surreal situation at best.

This is where Sherlock has decided to spend his birthday vouchers. It turns out they are viable in a number of shops in Soho but this is the one he likes best. Not that he didn't drag me into all the others before he decided to spend them here.

We've been in seedy shops, yellow 70s decor and porno flicks on the top shelves. We've been in sleek, chrome and blue neon lighting 80's sex shops, obviously aimed at gay men with their array of lubes and porn featuring soldiers, sailors and hairy biker blokes. We even ventured past the door of a sex shop for women; it was pink and black, feather boas dangled next to pink leather harnesses and glittery dildos. The lady who asked us to leave was very nice about it; she even pointed us down the street to this shop.

'De Sade's' is off the main street and the outside is painted black and silver. Inside it's very Victorian gothic. I can see where Laura and Miss Brandon get their decor from or maybe this is just what these people are into. I'm on the long silver sofa; legs crossed watching Sherlock dash here and there, waving things, pressing buttons and frowning at the packaging. Beside me on the sofa are his decisions. New leg cuffs, wide leather straps with a dark purple band of suede running along the surface, ending in a shiny thick D ring. The other cuff has a large lobster clasp; they look pretty solid, more so than Lestrade's handcuffs, I might have to mention that to Geoff when he gets back from Edinburgh.

Next to the cuffs is a new large bottle of lube. Sherlock insisted on us both tasting all the different brands, something that I thought at first would be hideous. Turns out I was wrong, some of them were quite nice in a fruity, non chemical way and we've settled for a fruit oil one, the Viking says it's least likely to make anyone allergic.

But it's this current purchase, being test run by Sherlock on his palm, his calf muscles, that makes me the most nervous. The display of crops, canes and, what Sherlock assures me are paddles is extensive and a bit daunting. They are set out in order of intensity, again the Viking is only too glad to talk to Sherlock about it, I am beginning to get suspicious of his motives, and the two have spent about twenty minutes whacking things, commenting on the flexibility and the size of head or each of the weapons.

"You see," Sherlock explains to me, "these factors all effect the sting, the sensation. The less flexible, the more intense the pain. The wider the head..."

"The more dispersed the impact?" I ask mainly to point out to the invading Viking that Sherlock belongs to me actually, thank you very much. Sherlock nods excitedly.

I still haven't made my mind up about this but Sherlock seems to have made up his. Maybe it'll be like the other things we've tried, once I give it a go I'll be fine but I'm still unsure. I'm going to ask Mike if he's tried it. Not tonight though, because tonight Sherlock and I are babysitting.

It's part of the reason we're here, Sherlock can't believe we are going to look after Beth and Katy and he's sulked like a toddler a fair bit since I told him. But it's Mike's ex regimental dinner and they had no one to look after the girls so I said I'd do it. In the end I had to agree to come shopping with Sherlock to get him to stop moaning. I've got to admit it does add up to a rather unusual agenda for the weekend.

Finally he seems to have made a decision and he's happily carrying a long riding crop in black and purple to the counter, along with the leg cuffs and the lube.

"Matching. Nice," nods the Viking, ringing up the purchases. "Do you know we do the hand cuffs in this range too?" Sherlock looks at me. We hadn't planned to buy handcuffs. I shrug and he grins. The Viking produces the handcuffs from under the counter.

"Want to try them?" He asks and grabs Sherlock's wrist before anyone can answer.

"Yes, I do thanks." I take the cuff and Sherlock's hand from him and wrap the cuff around it tightly; locking the buckle and snapping the D ring to the lobster clasp. The Viking looks put out and Sherlock grins.

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

When I wake up Art is on the phone in the bathroom. I smile at the thought of him going in there not to wake me. He obviously has no idea how loud he speaks.

"Yes Lo," so I know it's Laura on the other end. "I think I do. I know!" I grin at the sound of his excited laughter, "Mad right? But, well it's just great, comfy and no stress. Sex? Good." There is a pause and I sit up in bed to listen better. He's talking about me, about us. He hasn't had much chance to speak to Laura alone since we got together and I know he tells her everything so I'm not surprised he's speaking to her now but I am intrigued to hear what he thinks about our sex life.

If I'm honest it's something I'm a bit worried about. I mean, bloody hell, the passion's there all right but sometime the logistics let me down. Firstly I'm six years older than Art so I'm not as limber as I'd like to be and secondly, things take me a little while to recover, if you know what I mean?

It's obvious Art has a varied and healthy appetite for sex and it's a bit intimidating. If he wasn't so bloody nice to me and so obviously happy to be with me I'd be worried that my repertoire was a bit boring considering what he's used to getting up to. He assures me that there's time to work up to the other stuff but it's still a niggle in my head. I keep meaning to talk to John about it but I haven't had chance. So this part of his overheard conversation is interesting.

"No, it's good. It is. No, it's not like that. Well, I don't want to scare him and it's nice so far so... yes, you're right. I should, I will. Yes, I promise Laura, stop going on." There is a longer pause where I think about what he has just said. He doesn't want to scare me? Maybe I haven't really communicated how I'd like to give some things a try, I already reckon I could do a pretty good Dominant act. I am a police inspector after all. "Ha. Really? In 'De Sade's? Oooh, classy bondage chic. Ha ha. What were they buying? Were they? Did Stefan tell you that? Lucky John. Or lucky Sherlock! Right, yes, ok. Bye then sweetie, love you!"

He comes out of the bathroom and his face falls a little. "You're awake?" I frown.

"Try not to sound too disappointed Art; did you have something planned while I was asleep?"

"No, no. I just wanted you to have a rest. Laura rang and I went in there not to wake you. Sorry, was I too loud?" He comes and sits on the bed, his face wary. It's still early days and we're still testing the water, seeing what the other thinks about things. He's remarkably under confident underneath that swagger, I quite like it. It means that I'm seeing the real him and that, in turn, means I mean something to him. I'm not going to tell him I overheard the end of the conversation, it'll just be complicated. I shake my head.

"Just a bit, what's 'De Sade's'?" He sits next to me, tanned, athletic legs sticking out under his dressing gown.

"A sex shop. In Soho. Guess who was there today?" I frown, pretending although I already know the answer I also know he will love telling me so I let him have the fun. "Sherlock and John!" He grins and pulls a face of shock, hands held up next to his head in a good impression of camp. Art's camp is only ever put on for a joke. This boy used to row for his university, plays rugby and cricket and is possibly more butch than most of the lads at the station.

"Guess what they were buying?" he grins. I shake my head.

"Isn't this a bit personal?" he frowns and then pouts.

"Well, John's bound to tell you sooner or later so, no I don't think so. Anyway, it was a riding crop and cuffs!" he says the last words very quickly before I can stop him. I laugh.

"Maybe we should follow their example?" I ask, eyebrows raised. He looks at me very seriously.

"Really? Do you want to? You don't have to you know, not just because..." I silence him with a kiss. Our mouths speak far more eloquently like this. Neither of us are good at expressing our more profound feelings and I think that sometimes it's better when bodies take over.

The kiss deepens, his hands are under the duvet, running along my body, caressing and teasing. I arch my back as he touches me, that raw sexual energy amazing me again as he rouses my body with his fingers. I've never been very good at this, I think wryly as I shudder under his touch. If my past girlfriends could see how easily this posh twenty nine year old gets me hard and hungry I don't think they'd be very happy. Oh well eh?

One hand stroking along my length and one hand pinching my nipple he bends his head to the other nipple. Sharp stabs of pleasure rush through me. I am panting, clutching the bed sheets, growling and shuddering.

"Art, oh! Fucking hell, that is... oh god, fucking hell!" I come, arching my back and gripping the mattress for dear life. He rests his head on my chest, my heart hammering underneath those blonde curls. I look down at those curls contrasting with the dark hair that swirls over my nipples, noticing how the flecks of silver in mine highlight the gold in his. I don't know how this will end, what is going to happen but right now, I feel happy and I'm not going to question it too much. He glances up at me, kisses my chest.

"Was that ok?" I nod, raising an eyebrow to indicate I think he's mad for asking, I'm still a little out of breath. "Good. Do you want to order room service?" I run my hand through his hair; he smiles and closes his eyes like a cat.

"No, I want to show my fucking gorgeous boyfriend off in the hotel restaurant." I say. He grins.

"I love it when you talk like that." I wink at him.

"I know, that's why I do it darlin'." He giggles and swings his legs off the bed.

Thirty minutes later we're in the restaurant. I let Art order the wine and when it comes he tastes it and nods to the waiter. I always feel a prat doing that bit.

"Does anyone send it back?" I ask him.

"My dad does, he's a complete wanker though so..." he shrugs and I laugh. I've not met Art's dad and I'm not sure I want to either. From all accounts Art's assessment of him sounds pretty bloody accurate.

We are still eating when there's some kind of commotion at the door of the restaurant. We look over and there's young man, very drunk, arguing with the head waiter. As we watch he pushes past the man who nearly topples into the table behind him. He staggers and lurches over to us.

The young man has short wavy black hair. He's probably quite handsome when he's not pissed out of his skull, but it's hard to tell because that's exactly what he is. He's wearing a dinner suit with the tie undone. His jacket is buttoned up on the wrong buttons and his shirt tails are out. He's still clutching a bottle and his face looks a little green. Instinctively I stand up as he gets to our table.

"Who's this?" he slurs, pointing the bottom of the bottle at me. I look at Art, expression wary. Art sighs, shakes his head.

"Sebastian, this is Geoff, he's my boyfriend." Art shakes his head again at me and gives me a warning glance. "Geoff, this is Sebastian, my ex boyfriend from a long time ago. What do you want Seb?"

"I want you. I want you to just stop playing games Art, stop seeing all these other men and just come back to me, I know you want me..." With this he lunges at Art who shift back in his chair. I can see Sebastian is about to fall flat on his pretty face and I catch him with my hands under his armpits. He swings clumsily in my grip, bringing the bottle around with his limp arm and aiming for my head. I let go of him with one hand and block the bottle. He throws a weak punch which connects clumsily with my cheek. I flip him over, arm up his back and pin him across the table before I can think.

The head waiter rushes over, all apologies, and waves over two other men who haul Sebastian from the tangle of the table cloth and start to drag him away. Before they get him out of the door he screams in a bloodcurdling voice.

"Arthur Douglas! If you don't take me back I'll kill myself! I will! And it'll be your fault!"

* * *

**Ok, wow. Complete departure from my normal approach and I feel tres nervous about it! Does this sound like Lestrade? God, am nervous about this but I guess that means I am stretching myself. Let me know what you think. If it's bad I can start the story again another way.**

**Thanks to the Baker Street Irregulars who have been with me so far. PrincessNala and Peachsilk (thanks for being an ace friend, critic and a bloody good writer yourself!)) Darmed (hope you get some time to read this soon) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate (how's Italy?), 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa (are you reading them all again now?), Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat (still loving Hollinghurst), mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (hope there's material to draw in here!), thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal and Dead Air Space! You guys are truly wonderful, I don't deserve you.**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	2. An Educating Evening

Dr John Watson's POV

"I've got something to show you Sherlock." Beth points at him and he raises an eyebrow. She holds out her hand. "Come on, it's upstairs." She leads him to the bottom of the stairs; he looks over his shoulder at me pleadingly. Katy's already in bed but Beth assures us she's allowed to stay up for one more hour because she's older. I shake my head at Sherlock and he glares at me until I relent.

She takes us into her bedroom. It's strewn with dollies and dinosaurs; Mike said that these were her favourite things, along with space of course. She sits on the bed and pats the mattress next to her, indicating that Sherlock should sit down. He sits obediently, looking a little stunned. She points to the ceiling; there is a mobile spinning slightly. I recognise the rings of Saturn and realise it's the Solar System. I grin.

"Now, Sherlock. I have a proposition," she begins seriously. Sherlock nods, equally serious. "If you let me stay up a bit later I will explain to you how the Solar System works." She raises an eyebrow; they mirror each other's expression, thoughtful, assessing.

"I don't care about the Solar system Beth." Sherlock says. She frowns.

"But don't the other grown ups think you're a bit stupid when they find out you don't know that the Earth goes round the Sun?" she asks bluntly, I wince. Sherlock shrugs.

"Probably, but I don't care Beth. They're definitely the stupid ones. They don't know most of the things I know." He folds his arms, she folds hers.

"Like what? What do you know that," she glances at me, "John doesn't know?" Sherlock looks at me and grins.

"Most things Beth. John hardly knows anything. What sort of thing are you thinking about?" she twists her mouth, pondering.

"Do you know how to kill a person so no one knows you did it?" she looks at him like she expects him to disappoint her.

"I do." Sherlock nods. Beth looks at me.

"If John goes downstairs and watches some television you could tell me couldn't you Sherlock?" Sherlock looks at me, I look back in alarm. He winks.

"Of course, providing you go to bed at the usual time. What do you think of my proposition?" he asks, holding out his hand. There is a pause while Beth weighs up the options. She shakes his hand.

"Deal." She says.

Two and a half hours later Sherlock comes down and wakes me up from where I have fallen asleep on the sofa.

"Is she briefed in the methods of murder now?" I ask in a concerned fashion. He nods.

"Yep. Anyone who messes with Beth at primary school will be dispatched by judicious use of a concoction of PVA glue, felt tip pen ink and chalk." I sit up, alarmed.

"Will that work?" he nods again.

"Yes, if she got the formula right, but I doubt that will happen. She did ask lots of questions though. I did have to forbid the notes she wanted to take." He kisses me and smiles. Oh god, he's turned Mike's daughter into a trained assassin and it's only half ten.

"I thought she was going to bed on time?" I look at the clock and pout.

"She was, but it was more complicated than I had anticipated." He glances at the television and frowns.

"Complicated?" I turn the television off.

"Yes, it turns out she had a specific person in mind for her... experiment." He says mildly. I sit up further.

"Who? Oh my god, Sherlock, you've not...?" he shakes his head.

"No, don't be silly John, what do you think of me?" He glances at me and decides not to wait for the answer. "I am going to collect her from school when the half term holidays are over. Have a quiet word with the young man in question." He raises an eyebrow. I smile. I thought he hated kids.

We are lying together on the sofa, kissing. I am just beginning to wonder when Mike and Katie will be getting home, if it's really inappropriate to have sex in the lounge, when there's a crying from the baby monitor. Sherlock looks over from where he was nibbling my neck.

"What's that?"

"Bunty." He looks at me confused.

"There are three children?" I shake my head.

"No, Mike's other daughter is called Katy after her mother, but they call her Bunty, it's less confusing."

"Allegedly." He smiles. I nod.

"I'll go," I say, getting up. He switches the television back on.

I go upstairs and Bunty is still crying. Her little face is puffy and red.

"What's wrong sweetheart?" I ask her, sitting on the bed and putting my arm about her.

"Monster in the cupboard!" she sniffles pointing a shaky hand at the cupboard door which is ajar.

"Oh, there's no monster in there, Bunty. Look." I go the cupboard and open the door; she squeals and shrinks back in the bed. I stand in the cupboard. "See? No monster."

"He goes away when you're here Uncle John." she says. "If you stay here, he won't come back." I sigh and settle down on the bed beside her.

Twenty minutes later the door opens and I see Sherlock's silhouette in the doorway. I hold up a hand and he stops. I glance at Bunty, she's not asleep, her eyes are wide open. I sigh again and wave him in. He sits on the bed, this is getting crowded.

"What's the problem?" I begin to answer but then I realise he isn't talking to me. Bunty's eyes are wide as she answers him.

"Monster in the cupboard Uncle..." she trails off, she's forgotten his name or it's too hard to pronounce.

"Sherlock." He says and she nods. "This cupboard?" he points, she nods.

Sherlock gets up and puts his head around the door, when he comes back he nods.

"Yep. Monster, you're right Bunty. Luckily," he holds up one long finger, "I am a monster removal expert. Did Uncle John tell you that?" she shakes her head, her eyes are bigger than her open mouth. "Well I am. John, pass me my equipment." He points to the corner of the room. I look blankly and he glares, nodding his head to the corner. I look behind me. There is fishing net and a magic wand. I pick both up, raising an eyebrow questioningly. He nods again and snatches them from me.

"Thank you John. Right Bunty, sit still and watch me work." She nods.

Sherlock goes into the cupboard and closes the door nearly all the way up. There is banging and shouting, we see the net and the magic wand flailing from those long arms through the crack in the doorway.

"Got it!" he shouts. "John! Help me wrestle it out!" I get up, slightly alarmed, and got to the cupboard. He drags me inside.

"Get under the blanket." He hisses. "You're the monster." He bundles me under the blanket in his hand and hustles me out of the cupboard.

"Give the monster a whack Bunty, show him who's boss." A small hand smacks me hard on the head. I try not to shout. "Uncle John's just gone to open the door so we can throw the monster out. I'll get rid of it now."

Out in the hall he whips the blanket back.

"That should work." He is grinning. We go back inside.

"Is he gone?" Bunty asks us, she looks amazed.

"Yes. Gone. Definitely gone. Never coming back." I say firmly, Sherlock nods in a professional monster remover kind of way. Bunty grins.

"Great! Thanks Uncle..."

"Sherlock." He says.

"Thanks, Uncle Sherlock," she says and lies down in the bed. We go back downstairs.

"That was pretty impressive." I say to him, he smiles.

"Elementary psychology John, but thank you. Now, where were we?" He grabs me and pulls me down on the sofa with him. His hands are in my hair and he's grinding his hips against me. I am finding it hard to breathe. He stops kissing my neck to whisper in my ear.

"Shall we try the crop when we get home?" I freeze, I can't help it. I'm still not sure what I think. His face pulls back and he frowns at me, his mouth opens to speak and we hear the key in the front door. Mike and Katie are home.

Inspector Lestrade's POV

I don't know if it's how Art reacts to how I deal with Sebastian or if it's just all the things I've been thinking since he showed me the dungeon, told me about him being into all that stuff, but I really want to give it a go. Tonight.

When we get back to our room I already have a rough plan of action. I take off my shoes and throw my jacket over the chair.

"Art?" I say, sitting in the armchair. He looks at me eyebrow raised.

"Mm?"

"Would it be fair to say that you've been a bit of a man tart in the past?" I make my tone light, hoping he'll get that this is a lead up to something. His face goes from smiling to worry in about three seconds. I guess I didn't give the right signals, damn.

"Er. I suppose so. Maybe." He mumbles, slipping off his shoes and not looking at me anymore. Fuck, got that wrong Lestrade, badly wrong. He looks like he might cry. Shit. I get up and close the distance between us. I'm hoping this will close this emotional distance too. It's one of those times where I might be able to do this better if I'm actually touching him. I curse myself for my clumsy approach.

I hold his face and kiss him. He looks surprised but kisses me back. When his breathing is erratic and I can feel the tension, the arousal, in his body I put my lips to his ear and whisper.

"Do you think I might need to spank you for being a man tart Arthur?" I feel him tense; feel how these words change things. He gets it. I relax a little, knowing he understands what I am doing, I wasn't being hurtful, I was trying to set the scene.

"If you want to," he says quietly. I need a name I realise. I've called him Arthur before, mainly in jest but I've seen his reaction and I've been saving it for moments like this.

"Sir," I whisper, "I think I'd like you to call me Sir." He pushes out a long breath, he is trembling. I am so fucking turned on that I don't even know if we'll get to the spanking but I have put the idea there now and I have to follow through.

"If you want to, Sir," he says again, slightly louder, more confident of the game.

"I do want to Arthur. Very much so. Get on the bed, face down please."

Feeling a bit nervous now he is no longer so close to me I watch him lie over the bed, his legs hanging down from the side and his arse, his well muscled, firm arse, at just the right angle for my hand. My mouth goes dry, my cock is rock hard. It's amazing what you find out about yourself isn't it?

I walk over to the bed, I can see how hard he is breathing, the suspense in his body. I bring back my hand and slap his right buttock. The satisfying thwack, the feel of that hard muscle under my palm, the slight jump he makes, the noise from his mouth that is a gasp and a moan all just amp up the atmosphere. I can feel my pulse in my groin. I slap him again, other buttock this time. This time it's definitely a moan. I smile to myself. It's amazing. He's loving this and I am too, I don't have time to compute this, work it out, but suddenly I realise how perfect we are for each other.

After five slaps, each eliciting a more erotic sound from Art's mouth and a stab of pleasure right to my cock, I have to do something or I'll explode.

"Sir?" he pants into the bed. I stop. Have I been too hard, is this wrong?

"Yes Arthur?" I try to keep my apprehension out of my voice.

"Would you fuck me please sir? I want you to, so much. If that's allowed?" I feel my eyes widen, feel my pulse jump. We haven't done this but god, I want to. I really want to. I nod and then realise he can't see that.

"Yes Arthur, I will..." I panic, surely we need lubrication? I haven't got anything, didn't want to presume anything. How do I say this and still stay in control? "Have you got anything to make this easier?" He nods into the bed and points to his bag on the floor. "Get it then."

He scrambles up and comes back with a bottle. I can see how hard he is through his expensive suit trousers. My heart is pounding and I can barely think. I feel a little flustered; I don't know how to do this, the angles. Do we have to do it with him face down? I have a brain wave.

"You've been good Arthur. I'd like you to choose how I fuck you. How do you want me to do this?" he doesn't think, he just lies on his back.

"Shall I take these off Sir?" he glances at his trousers; I nod and watch this beautiful boy undress himself for me. Fucking hell, he has an amazing body. All that sport has made him lean and taut. His hard cock stands up and I lean across, grab him and pump him with my fist, he shudders, thrusting. Then he opens his legs.

I pass him the lube and he covers his hand in the clear liquid and reaches for me. I hastily kick off my trousers. He looks at my erection and sighs; this response just spurs me on. I kneel on the bed and his slippery hands coat me in the lube, he guides me to his entrance.

The angle's not right so I grab a cushion; push it underneath his back, tilting his hips until things feel better. He smiles at me. I grin back.

This is not like fucking a woman. There's the forbidden element for a start. Yes, I've had anal sex with women before, but maybe it's because it's Art. Maybe it's watching that beautiful face open and gasp as I slide inside him; maybe it's that which makes me think I might come now, without even trying. It's that or it's how tight he is, how the angle of his body presses in on me, nearly paralysing me with its intensity. I don't know, I don't fucking care either. I'm never going to get bored of this.

I'm thrusting, it's almost independent of my brain, this regular movement in and out which just seems to stem from some animal instinct, some primal urge to possess him. He is gasping; I am grunting with each push forward, each slide back. His body arches, his cock bounces with the force of my movement.

"Touch yourself Arthur." His hands go to his erection, he smoothes his hands along himself. The view I have is such a turn on, if the pressure of his body on my cock wasn't enough, this just pushes me that inch further. His tanned body, soft skin over those hard muscles, that blonde tousled hair sticking to his forehead. Dark blue eyes open wide and watching me, full red lips open, gasping, twisting in ecstasy. It does it for me. I feel the pressure building in my groin, feel the sensation blacking everything out, feel everything becoming urgent, all consuming.

"Fucking hell! Ah! Fuck!" I come inside him; he arches with my thrusts and comes with me. His mouth making whimpering, mewling noises. I slump over him, wriggling back carefully to free myself from his clenching muscles. I lie across his chest, kiss the salty skin.

Neither of us speak and I don't really know what to say. Was that really lame considering what he's used to? Is he regretting brining me on this holiday now? I can't bear this feeling, this potential for humiliation, better get it over with. I look up at him.

"Was that..? I mean, I've never, I don't know if..." he strokes my hair.

"Geoff, are you asking about the slaps or the fucking? Or both?" I can hear the smile in his voice.

"Er, both I suppose." He chuckles, chest vibrating with the noise.

"The slaps were, well, you saw how they were! And the fucking, yep, that was great. Hoooo!" he lets out a low whoop. I giggle.

"I know it wasn't very intense, I mean, you're probably used to whips and things." I try to think how I can express this; it's not an easy topic. "And, I'm happy to work up to that! I mean, if you want me to? If that was..." he laughs again, tilts my chin with his hand, pulls me up the bed so we are at eye level.

"Geoff, yes let's work up to whips," he smiles widely, "and handcuffs and rubber and nipple clamps and everything! Those slaps were such a turn on, because it was you giving them to me! I was lying there thinking, 'this is Geoff Lestrade smacking my arse!' and THAT was what turned me on. God yes! Let's definitely work up to whips. I think you'll be great at this! Yum!" he kisses me passionately. I laugh through his kisses.

"You're fun Art Douglas!" he waggles an eyebrow.

"I know I am darling, so are you."

**So an education for everyone eh? I'm hoping that you're all still enjoying this. it's hard to piece it all together but I know where I'm going. Was the contrast of scenes too much? I wanted to show the different stages of development of the two relationships. Did it work? **

**Much love to Baker Street Irregulars; PrincessNala (first to read...) and Peachsilk (do you know that, if it wasn't for Peachy posting for me when my internet goes down, you wouldn't be reading this? thank you babes!) Darmed (hope you get some time to read this soon) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate (nice to have you back!) 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat (techno Viking ahoy!) mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (draw Sherlock the Monster removal expert?),thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal and Dead Air Space! Thank you so much!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	3. Following things through

Dr John Watson's POV

He's told me to take my clothes off and get on the bed. He's gone off somewhere, probably to get the crop. I hear the heating turning on and this little thoughtful act takes some of the fear out of my body. Only some of it mind, because I still don't know what I think about the crop.

I lie there, arms folded behind my head in a false impression of confidence and I can feel myself getting hard with anticipation. Or is it the fear? I refuse to spot the difference.

When the door opens and Sherlock comes in that fear ratio ups another level but so does the eroticism because he is wearing only his leather trousers and the crop is smacking sharply against his leg. He chuckles when he sees my half hard state. Then I notice the blindfold in his other hand. I swallow.

He doesn't speak until he has covered my eyes.

"I thought this might make it easier on you John. 'Give a man a mask and he will tell you the truth' as Oscar Wilde once said." His hands stroke down my cheek, my neck, my chest and rub against my nipples. There is no half hard about me anymore. He chuckles again.

He must be standing by the bed because there's no movement on the mattress. The next thing I feel is a rasping caress on my nipples. I gasp and arch up from the bed, hands clutching the covers, breath hissed out over my teeth. The blindfold amplifies, magnifies, the smallest touch into something searing, consuming. It takes me a moment to realise that the touch is not his hands.

The rubbing becomes firmer, more maddening, the invisible line of desire strings down my body as the friction on my sensitive skin increases. It's then I realise that this is the looped end of the crop. My heart beats wildly in my chest as the movement stops and instead there is the smallest tap across my nipples, one, two, three, the last slightly harder, slightly painful. I gasp but the sensation of the sting is replaced with a rush of blood to my sensitive flesh. I am panting, so extreme is the pleasure. It makes me wonder how this would feel elsewhere. Oh god.

He trails the loop down my chest, down past my navel and into my pubic hair; I know he can see the effect that he is having on me. The idea of him watching me, so aroused and desperate while he teases me with the riding crop, is wickedly humiliating. Why does this turn me on so much? Before I can reason this out the loop moves upwards, away from that part of me which is yearning, longing for some kind of touch, even from the cruel sting of that loop, and he traces a lazy way up my body to my face.

The loop caresses my lips; the soft, soft leather reminds me of the feel on him against my mouth. Instinctively I kiss it as it brushes past me. I hear his breath, ragged and aroused. So, the power goes both ways here, I realise. This turns him on; it turns him on to see me like this. It gives me confidence.

The loop moves away. I lie, listening, wary, every nerve alive to the sensations in the room. The crop starts its path again along my body, this time from my feet. The leather slaps against my soles and the pain is sharp, savage, and then there is the spreading warmth which I imagine he can see licking its way up my body, caressing my cock with its tongue of fire.

He traces along my legs, the inside of my calves, up onto the soft skin inside my thighs. Without thinking I move my legs apart, feeling more exposed and more turned on than I had imagined possible. If he uses the spreaders now I will die of lust. I file the idea away.

He taps between my thighs, first the left and then the right receive a tiny, stinging blow. Each time the warmth courses up my body, I can feel my pulse in my cock, I feel like I'm glowing. Up and up, along my balls, caressing them so softly it feels like velvet.

The loop moves away and I tense, ready for the smarting slap on that so tender part of me but it doesn't come. Instead the leather ambles along my hip bone. I am almost disappointed that there is no sting, no pain, with the delicious, chasing fire which accompanies it. What have I become? The tickling sensation along my hip is hypnotic. The movement makes me buck up involuntarily. I can hear Sherlock breathing heavily.

I hear the swish and feel the sharp tingle on my balls which accompanies it before my body registers the strike. The smothering wave of desire flushes the pain out of my body as he taps my tender skin. I cry out, groan and twist on the bed. I can feel myself sweating; feel the bedclothes sticking to me. All my focus is on my erection. I can't think of anything else, I have to be touched. It's like a mantra in my head. Touch me Sherlock!

"Please." I ask, not really knowing what I'm asking him for but knowing that I want, I need, something more.

"What do you want?" he sounds aroused, his voice dark, demanding. The loop is caressing my hips again, I can't concentrate on words.

The crop flicks against my hipbone, the most tender of licks against my skin but dangerously close to that part of me which is incandescent with desire.

"I don't know... something... please. Touch me." The loop answers my prayer. It steals slowly up along the length of my erection, its rasping tongue savage and possessive. He rubs me with it and, god help me, I buck against it like a lover, trying to gain that increase of friction I need so badly.

The rubbing, the fire, increases and I am almost willing him to strike, to give me that extreme pain and pleasure. It frightens me and yet it draws me on, like something which I cannot refuse.

"Do you want it John?" Again his voice is dark, dominant. I nod, shake my head; twist my body as the loop drives me to distraction. I can feel the building of my orgasm, the hot, fierce wave of lust surging through my body, a whirlpool centred over my hard cock.

"I... I... yes, yes I do, oh god!" This last cry is for the loop. It swishes back; the draft created by its flexible shaft as it rears its head for the strike gives me no room for fear, for tensing. I want it. I need it.

It is a light tap no doubt, but it sears my skin and I feel myself ripping apart at the seams as its fiery tongue lashes my flesh. I buck and writhe; I grab the bed head, fingers feeling as though they will indent the wood. The throbbing doesn't stop; it just gets more overwhelming, more colossal until I'm nothing but those inches of tortured, hard arousal. I come.

Instantly he is on the bed with me, his mouth on mine, his tongue probing, savouring, as I pant my come down, my body feeling that drop from a great height that comes with intense orgasm. I pull the blindfold off and he is looking at me intently.

I grab his head and pull him close, trying to imprint this feeling onto his lips. My hands find his trousers buttons and I unfasten them and push my hand inside, reaching for my prize. He gasps and thrusts into my hand as my fingers find his burning skin.

I am rough with him. I hold his jaw in my hands and watch him come. His eyelids flutter, his mouth opens; his breath escapes him in a moan.

"John, John, John!"

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

When I wake up it's because Art has got out of bed. The warm memory of last night pervades my body. I lie with my eyes shut and interrogate myself. How am I feeling now? The short answer is, fucking brilliant. I'm so excited to have taken those first steps down a path which intrigues and excites me. I was wondering when Art would get around to it and I'm glad I decided to take matters into my own hands, so to speak.

I want to get up and go BDSM shopping right now, buy all the things I want to try out on that beautiful body, watch him spin out of control again under my control. The feeling was narcotic, addictive, a rush of power. I can imagine that people can get seriously hooked on this sort of thing.

I open my eyes because I can't hear him. He comes back from the doorway with a trolley. Room service. I love him. Grinning I sit up.

"Morning! I ordered full English breakfast," he frowns. "Well, Scottish anyway. I figured you worked up an appetite last night." He smiles and sits down next to me on the bed. I pull him into a kiss, fingers tight in his hair, he winces and I feel his breath gasp out. I break the kiss and he whimpers slightly. I grin.

"I did, quite an appetite, not all of it for fried breakfast!" I let him go; he rubs the back of his head and grins widely.

"I'm glad I made you happy, Sir." The last word is said cheekily but I know he's testing the water. Does this game carry on out of bed? I think it bloody does you know.

"Good boy Arthur." I smile, he grins.

We sit at the table in the window, early spring sunshine pouring in through the blinds. I look at him as he spreads marmalade onto his toast, his manners refined, cultured. His blonde hair glistens in the light, his dark eyelashes contrasting with his tanned skin, those big blue eyes. I shake my head. I'm not particularly under confident but what does he see in me? Slightly greying, still pretty fit but not an Adonis by any measure. Not like this Greek statue eating breakfast opposite me. He frowns, catching my glance.

"What?" he puts down the toast touches my hand. He really cares about me, fuck why he cares, he does. Nice one Lestrade.

"Just wondering about last night..." I begin. He frowns, his brows knit together, even this is attractive on him. "No, nothing bad. I was just wondering about... you know, masochism." His eyebrows rise. "How it works?" He twists his mouth, thinking. He bites his toast and I watch those full almost feminine lips, that dimpled chin, as he chews thoughtfully.

"Well, I get turned on by pain." He shrugs. I nod; go on, I wave to him. "Well, it's well known that pain causes endorphins and blood rush and that erogenous zones like blood rush." He grins, I laugh. "I've never really thought about it too much. I like the lack of control. That's my biggest turn on, that you can do just what you want and I have given up any responsibility. So, I suppose the more extreme the things we do, the more obvious it is that you're in control and so..."

"The more turned on you get?"He nods, drinks his coffee.

"Do you think I'm weird now?" He chews his lip; it's a gesture which is strangely erotic. I shake my head and chuckle.

"How can I? I've never spanked anyone before but last night... well, that was an enormous turn on. I suppose it's the reverse of what you just said. I can do what I want; you're letting me do it. That trust and that... illusion of control I suppose," I shake my head, the image of him on the bed is disturbingly clear in my head. "Well, fucking hell. Did it for me." I nod decisively. He grins and then laughs.

"So, you've not done anything like this before?" he asks still chewing that lip. I shake my head.

"Boys? Or bondage? Neither I'm afraid but my school reports always said I was a quick learner." I laugh. "I'm a bit worried about getting it wrong though." I frown and he looks at me thoughtfully.

"When we get home I'll get Laura to teach you Dom 101. She's good at that; she's trained quite a few." Trained? Bloody hell. The idea excites me, I like learning new stuff and _this_ new stuff? Well, if last night is anything to go by then I've found my niche.

"Love to, sign me up."

"You have no idea how happy that makes me. I really like you Geoff and I was so worried that my, predilections weren't going to be up your street. That would have sucked." He purses his lips and shrugs.

"Has it been a problem before? In relationships?" I ask him, cutting up my bacon. I glance up; he is looking at me seriously.

"Yes," he nods. "I've either had relationships just based on sex, no feeling, just an agreement to satisfy both parties' needs or it's been love, but no bondage." He sighs and I smile and grab his hand.

"Good job you met me then, eh?" I say and then realise that I am assuming too much. He hasn't said he loves me, no one's even mentioned that word. He is still looking at me seriously, those dark blue eyes, like the twilight sky in summer, hold me in that gaze.

"It's a very good job I met you Geoff. I hope you know that's what I think, what I feel." He looks down at his plate and I wonder what he just said. My stomach is butterflying like mad and it's not hunger or sex, fucking hell.

We eat in silence for a moment. I watch him and he tries not to let me see him watching me. Art is a bit of a paradox; everyone thinks he's so confident, cocky and he can be. But he's not always like that. He gets up and puts his iPod on and I smile as the tune starts. It's Etta James, the song which was playing at Sherlock's party when we first met. I suppose, in my head, I think of it as our song. It reminds me of the first night he took me home.

John's not asked me what happened that night but I know he wants to. It makes me laugh how he's so bloody polite. If it was me I'd have had a questionnaire set up ready. Multiple choice. Anyway, no matter what John probably thinks, he wouldn't be guessing that I was the one who had to make the first move; I doubt anyone would have predicted that.

I smile to myself remembering how Art had got us two more beers and tried to play down the grandiose decor of his house. How I'd taken the bottle and gone in for a kiss and he stuttered, blushed. It threw me I can tell you. From all his talk at Baker Street I thought he'd jump me as soon as we got in, was rather looking forward to it, if the truth be told.

But no, even considering what he'd whispered in my ear in Sherlock's kitchen while we watched those two slow dance. What was it he said?

"So, Mr. Policeman, I think I've been rather naughty and I might need some correction from the law." I chuckle and he looks at me from his breakfast and then back to the magazine he's reading.

Now I think about it, I think he might have been just being brave. The idea makes me warm. Anyway, I chased him around the house, metaphorically but nearly literally, and in the end I cornered him against the fridge.

An arm either side of him, pinning him where he stood, I kissed him. Clumsy at first, unsure of how to do this, where to move, how to accommodate each other's style. You know how it is the first time. But then he moaned, his hands up in my hair, pulling, urgent, and that was it. I had no time for finding the bedroom, I had a suspicion I would need a map for that and I was too bloody impatient to go orienteering when the kitchen floor looked good enough for what I wanted to do to him.

We only moved when my back was aching from all the rolling about on the cold stone. We barely made it up the stairs for round two. I needed a rest after that I can tell you.

I went to work the next day, looking like that bizarre combination of utter shit and cloud nine which is a complete giveaway that you've met someone and had amazing first night sex. My team must be the fucking useless detectives that Sherlock always says they are because not one of them worked it out. Waste of tax payers' money the lot of them. I didn't go home after work, well, just to get changed and pack a bag. Fuck it, I thought to myself, jump in with both feet again Geoff. This how my marriage started and how it ended. I guess I'm just passionate and Maria wanted something different.

I panicked then, in my bedroom of the flat, packing a bag to stay over for who knows how long. Thinking about Maria, how she'd been so keen in the beginning and then, finding out about her affair. I couldn't try again after that. It's not who I am. I'm all or I'm nothing.

I walked to Art's house, the bag getting heavier and heavier. I wasn't sure if it was symbolic or just physics. By the time I got here I had decided to tell him it all, tell him just what sort of person I am and if he didn't want that? Well, at least I'd know right now.

He'd made food and I didn't want to have to eat and leave so I spoke to him while he finished things off in the kitchen.

"Look, Art, I've been thinking all the way here and..." His back was turned, he was slicing bread but even from behind I could see the tension in his body, the slumped shoulders when he heard my words.

"It's ok," he said, not turning. "You'll still stay for dinner though?" I frowned, confused. When I finally realised what he meant I was anxious to put it right.

"God, Art, no," I grabbed his elbow spun him around. "Put the bread knife down eh? There's a good lad." He grinned sheepishly as I took the knife from him. He didn't say another word, just stood there looking at me with those big eyes.

"What I want to say, what you deserve to know, is that I don't do one night stands. Never have. I'm a serial monogamist I suppose. I have grand passions or nothing at all. And I think it's only fair to tell you this now, because if this is just a shag..." I didn't finish my sentence. And we didn't eat until much later.

I look over at him across the breakfast table. He smiles at me and fills my coffee cup. I've not felt so content in years.

By the time we leave the hotel I've convinced Art we need to go shopping. He's excited by showing me what he calls 'the ropes'.

The foyer is busy with people and I notice that most of them are in uniform, police or paramedic. What's going on? The outside of the hotel is taped off and I lift the yellow strands to get us out. A bloke in the suit of a plain-clothes officer comes over.

"Are you gentlemen staying at the hotel?" he asks, his accent a revelation, I'd forgotten we weren't in London. I nod.

"What's happened?" He looks at me in surprise, I realise he doesn't know me, "I'm Inspector Lestrade, Scotland Yard." I don't have my badge in this coat. doesn't look impressed but he nods curtly.

"And this is?" he gestures to Art who has been letting me do the talking.

"Lord Arthur Douglas." he says, holding out his hand to the policeman who shakes it warily.

"What's happened?" I ask again. The policeman, I notice he hasn't told us his name, blinks slowly.

"A murder," his tongue rolls the 'r's in the word, giving it extra syllables. I frown, what? "A man's been found dead in his room this morning."

"And it's murder? You're sure?" I don't mean to question him but I see him bristle.

"At this stage we think so, yes. We're going to be questioning everyone in the hotel obviously." I nod, there's an uncomfortable silence.

"Right, well we're going out now, so..." he steps aside and I realise he had stopped us quite deliberately. It makes me nervous. Not much makes me nervous.

**So, you got the crop. I'd be really keen to know your views on this chapter. It's a bit of a mirror image of the last one. Sex from Sherlock and John and character dev for Lestrade and Art. Let me know what you think. I feel much happier with this chapter. **

**Thank you to the Baker Street Irregulars; PrincessNala and Peachsilk (thanks for test driving the crop section!) Darmed (get someone to print it off. Surely someone could podcast this she can read it?) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees! (Hello again!), Aelfric's cat, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (can't THINK what you'll be asked to draw from this chapter!),thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal and Dead Air Space! Thank you so much!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	4. Developments

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

'Severin' is an exclusive bondage and sex shop. You can tell this by the intimidating woman in latex behind the counter, easily six foot something in those frightening heels and her hair in a tight bun you can almost hear screaming, and by the price tags.

"£100 for a riding crop? Art? This is madness!" He nods, completely unconcerned about the financial side of this shopping trip. Even though I know he has all these things at home he's gathered a mountain of stuff on the mahogany counter top by Drusilla, evil bondage queen of hell.

"Yes, but have you felt it?" He caresses the item in question in a way that is singularly erotic, I feel myself getting warm. And then he swishes it through the air, it makes a fantastic noise, all rush and threat. I have to have a go with that.

"Can I try that?" I say, eyebrow raised. He grins. Drusilla speaks, her voice surprisingly feminine and light considering her terrifying demeanour.

"We have a dummy downstairs in the showroom? If you want to really swing it about?" I nod, we are both grinning now. She is pointing a latex gloved finger (don't those things get hot to wear all day?) down some black painted stairs and we follow her direction.

The showroom is sophisticated and very exciting. Some of the equipment I've seen at Art's house and some for which I can only imagine the uses, hang from the ceiling or sit on neat racks along the walls. The place is pewter and black and has the appearance I'd imagine a medieval dungeon would look like if it was designed by Vivienne Westwood. There's a lot of velvet swagging.

In the corner is a black shiny dummy of a man bent over. Dear god, there's even a hole in his arse for, well you can imagine. I say 'he' but I notice there are no genitals of any kind on the front of his body. It's an interesting idea but I look around and realise you could probably add your own from this selection, if you wanted to.

"Go on then." Art waves his hand in the direction of the smooth, rounded arse of the dummy. "Aim for here." He points to the part which would be the most fleshy, the least bony part of someone's bottom.

"Less likely to do lasting damage, still hurts though eh?" He nods grinning. I smile and wink.

I bring back my arm, not too far because I want to gauge the distance, the swing. I bring my arm forward, the crop making a great sound as it slices though the air, I realise I am off target, my elbow needs to shift slightly if I'm going to hit my mark. This is going to be trickier than it looks. The crop connects with the dummy and there is a satisfying thwack but I'm not happy.

"Here, try this." Art notices my expression and grabs some red tape. He bites off two small strips, his white teeth tearing the plastic makes me go all tingly. He makes a small cross on the exact spot I want to hit. "Bondage tape." He says waving the roll. "Sticks to itself but not skin. Amazing stuff, we should get some." I nod, sounds like fun.

This time my swing feels more relaxed, more in control and I hit the mark easily. I know I'm going to need to practise but I like it.

"Do you want to have a go on your own? I'll go and have a coffee upstairs?" Art smiles at my concentration. I nod.

"Can you have coffee here?" I ask, distractedly.

"There's a BDSM bookshop and cafe upstairs. I'll be up there when you've finished, then we can buy stuff and go back to the hotel." He looks flushed, maybe it's me swinging this thing around. I grin and flex the crop between my hands, he swallows.

"I'll be up when I've got this sorted." He smiles.

"Perfectionist, should have known it. All good Doms are." He kisses me lightly and goes back up the stairs. I hear him talking to Elvira queen of pain and they laugh.

This leaves me, the dummy and lots of thing to whack about. Great.

I pick up the crop again and swing it back, aiming for the red cross. This time I hit it but the contact feels too hard. I decide to practise on soft blows and work up. When I've got that pretty much sorted I try to alternate, one soft, one harder and then I graduate to the other cheek. I make my own cross with the tape, much smaller, more precise than Art's target. I want to be good at this. I try the tape on one of my wrists, it clings to itself, getting more firmly attached as I pull on the shiny surface. Yes, definitely getting some of this, I think. I wonder if they do black?

After practising on both sides and with harder and softer strikes I look at my watch, bloody hell I've been down here an hour. I should go and find Art but then my eye catches sight of the array of paddles they have down here. I just want to try a paddle first.

It's like a small, flexible table tennis bat, it's flat surface covered in some kind of soft leather. There's a chain mail one too and I can imagine that that bugger stings. I go for the tamer option, for now.

Less swing on this, you have to be much nearer to your target if you're going to get it right. But it makes a great sound and I imagine it's a good starter, get things warmed up before you get specific with the crop. Or vice versa if you want to come down the scale. I like it.

I take the crop and the paddle upstairs and put them with the pile of stuff Art is buying. Morticia, queen of darkness, smiles a scarlet lipstick smile.

"Do you have any of that bondage tape in black?" I ask. Her grin gets wider.

"Your boyfriend put a bulk pack on his order before he went for coffee." She smiles. I nod and smile too.

"Good lad." She laughs.

Art is upstairs reading a magazine. He waves and gestures to his cup, demanding another coffee. I go to the counter and a big bloke with an alarming amount of piercings makes me two coffees and gives me two pieces of cake.

"Thanks. So, did you get it sorted?" Art says as I pass him his coffee. "Ooh cake!"

"I've put the crop on our pile of purchases, and a paddle." I add, sitting down and pouring milk into my cup. Art looks at me from under those long lashes and my stomach gets that wobbly feeling again.

"Paddle? Sounds interesting." He grins. "Hurry up with that cake, I want to go home and play!" I laugh.

"Demanding aren't you?" he twists his mouth into a smirk.

"Can we go home and play, Sir?" The word goes right through me. His tone, the slightly bowed head, sends shivers down my spine.

"Of course we can Arthur, as you've asked so nicely." We both are grinning.

But when we get back to the hotel the police are waiting for us. It's the same bloke before and, if anything, he looks less happy than he did this morning.

"Good afternoon Inspector Lestrade, Lord Douglas," he knows our names and this is not a good sign. If things were sorted out, if the questioning was only routine he would have had to check his list to remember who we are.

"Inspector..? I'm sorry; I didn't catch your name this morning." He looks at me before he answers.

"Inspector McKay." He says in a dull voice, giving nothing away. "If you've got time we've got some questions we'd like to ask you." Art begins to speak, about to explain that we're busy but I touch his arm and he looks at me. I shake my head.

"Yes, of course we have time Inspector. We can finish our plans for the afternoon later." Art smiles at me. We follow Inspector McKay into the hotel.

Two hours later I'm on the phone to John Watson.

Dr John Watson's POV

I'm just thrashing Sherlock at this shooting game on the Wii when the phone rings. He's tried all sorts of distraction tactics including stopping to kiss me passionately just when I was getting to the end of my first round.

I manoeuvre us around, still kissing him, until I can see the screen, disentangle my gun arm and shoot two men dead who were just peeking from behind a blazing wreck of a car. He sighs and throws himself down on the sofa.

"That's not fair John! You were trained by the army to be accurate under pressure!" he sulks. I laugh and put my gun on the table now my round is over.

"Sherlock, I don't remember the distraction of being snogged by a six foot odd, seriously over competitive lover, being part of marksmen training!" I flop down beside him laughing. "Although that might have been more fun with hindsight!"

He grins and wriggles over so I can sit properly; he throws his legs over me.

"Over competitive? Me? It wasn't me who decided that I was so warm I'd just take off my jumper in the middle of my opponent's last round. That was cheating John Watson!" I giggle. He's right, but it did make him miss three important points.

"You'd be useless in combat Sherlock. All it would take to distract you is for a smallish, relatively fit civilian to innocently undress and... Well, you'd be in trouble I can tell you." I laugh more loudly when he turns to me his mouth in a smirk despite himself.

"You are not some civilian and that was tactics John! It should be in the rules somewhere!"

"It isn't, I looked." I knew he'd start on about the rules again.

"Right, well I've got some plans for next time we play. I seem to remember a phone conversation to your sister where you agreed to a dinner party because you were... erm... distracted." He raises an eyebrow. I flush, remembering.

"Now, that would be cheating, although I'm tempted to have another game just to see that show again!" he laughs.

"Just ask. Or command." His voice goes low and he scoots across the sofa to kiss me. I kiss him back, something of the memory of the way he distracted me from that phone call echoing in my body.

I'm just getting into it, thinking we should maybe take this into the bedroom, get ourselves comfy, when the phone rings. I sit up and Sherlock pulls me back down, his hands running down my back, resting on the waistband of my jeans.

I sit up again and extricate myself from his tangle of limbs.

"It might be important." He shakes his head, brings his hand to the front of my jeans, starts to unbutton them. The answer phone kicks in.

"John? Sherlock?" It's Lestrade and I've never heard him sound so anxious. "Fuck! Look, when you get this phone me right..." I pick up the receiver.

"Geoff, it's John. What's happened?" There is a sigh on the end of the line, like relief and frustration all mashed together.

"God, thank god. John, something dreadful's happened. Art's going to be charged with murder!"

"What the fuck? What? Hang on." I gesture for Sherlock to stop trying to undo my trousers. He looks at my face, realises I'm serious and sits back. His eyes are wide.

Lestrade sounds breathless, eager to share this burden.

"Right. Last night an old boyfriend of Art's showed up in the hotel restaurant. Pissed out of his face, getting leery. There was a bit of a struggle; he tried to hit me with a bottle..."

"What? Where are you staying? I thought it'd be somewhere nice..."

"It is. Anyway, this bloke goes all melodrama, threatens to kill himself and then he's dragged away by hotel security. This morning he's found dead by the housekeeping. So the police wanted to question everyone."

"Fair enough. But why would they think Art had anything to do with it?" I ask and now Sherlock is sitting up, gesturing for the phone. I put up a hand and put Lestrade on speaker phone.

"Well, they asked me about what happened. There were witnesses to say I restrained him on the table and that he'd been waving the bottle about. They seemed ok with it. Art explained how he knew Sebastian, that's the dead guy's name, and they went away happy. Then they came back. Seems toxicology says that Sebastian's been murdered."

Before I can say anything Sherlock jumps in. His hands are steepled under his chin and his eyes are alight. He's not had a case for a while and the sight of him on fire, alert and firing on all cylinders again is a bit alarming.

"Toxicology? Lestrade what did toxicology find?" He tilts his head as Lestrade answers and nods as though he knew the answer already. How could he?

"They found puffer fish poison in his system. He's been poisoned," Lestrade sounds weary, terrified and relieved that Sherlock is on the case. I try not to feel offended, after all my lover is the world's only consulting detective.

"Tetrodotoxin," Sherlock says, nodding. I frown and his eyes focus on me. "Puffer fish poison, tetrodotoxin. And now they think it's Art?" He asks Lestrade his gaze now boring into the phone as though he could see through the plastic into the policeman's soul.

"Yes. Because of that bloody recipe." Sherlock is reaching for the laptop before I can process what Lestrade just said. Why would the police think puffer fish poison linked Art to the murder?

The laptop is on and Sherlock is booking us tickets on the next train to Edinburgh. He points to the departure time, one hour. And then he waves me off to pack. I go into the bedroom and grab a suitcase, no idea how long we're going for and whether I'm packing for him too. My mind buzzing with questions. He's still talking to Geoff.

We're on the train to Edinburgh and Sherlock is still tapping the laptop furiously. He saves pages and bookmarks sites and cuts and pastes things at lightning speed into a folder he's made on the desk top. I glance at the screen, he's hardly spoken since we got the call from Lestrade but I'm not worried. I ponder on the idea that most partners, faced with incommunicative lover for nigh on two hours, would at least be sulking by now but I know him. This is Sherlock thinking, planning how and why and where he can use his tremendous intellectual capacity to help Art out of this mess.

I have already phoned Laura to tell her what was going on and she's coming up later tonight. She thinks that someone with money might be able to help and she's probably right.

Sherlock clicks his fingers and points to the doctor's bag he's packed with equipment from the lab. I pass it to him and he gives me a brief, brilliant smile.

He rummages and checks numerous bottles, test tubes and jars filled with unknown substances. Then he nods and puts them away, passes the bag back to me.

"Is it going to be ok?" I ask, aware how childlike is my question, how much I trust him to make things right. He purses his lips and then nods and tilts his head.

"I hope so." He says seriously,

Lestrade meets us at the station and we go to a nearby cafe to talk things through. He looks tired out, worried and pale.

"Shit. This is just awful." He rubs his hand through his hair.

"Where's Art now?" I ask him, touching his hand and getting no reaction.

"At the station, he volunteered to go, answer some more questions. He just wants this sorted before..." I look at Sherlock who is nodding.

"Before?" I question.

"Before the press get hold of it, before his father finds out." Sherlock says seriously. He looks worried too now. It dawns on me that Art is not like the rest of us. The press will think this is news, more than if it was one of us. Son of a peer of the realm accused of murdering his lover with poison? Dear god, I can imagine the tabloid headlines. I shake my head as the weight of the realisation hits me.

"And Art's dad? He's a bit of a bastard by all accounts, is that right Sherlock?" Sherlock nods grimly.

"Beat his mother, used to beat the boys too, I think. Utter homophobe and psychopath. Lovely man." Sherlock's voice is cold. Could this get any worse?

"Why do they think Art had anything to do with it?" I voice the question which has been in my head the entire journey up here.

"Tetrodotoxin." I frown, Lestrade looks amazed. "Puffer fish poison." Sherlock spoons sugar into his cup, we watch him put four spoonfuls in and stir.

"What's that got to do with Art?" I ask although there is something niggling in my head but I can't say what it is.

"Art's new recipe, from his mother's TV show." Lestrade says and rubs his face with both of his hands.

"Oh god! Yes of course. He was going to make it for us!" I shake my head now I've realised the link.

"Yes. I don't think they can link it to him but they know who his mother is and one of them watched the puffer fish episode." Lestrade sighs and I don't know whether it's the strain or the idea of the police watching celebrity chefs which upsets him.

"That's nothing to go on." Sherlock says. "They can't arrest him for that." Lestrade nods but he doesn't look certain.

"They're going to try." He says his mouth a thin line. "That McKay bloke hates Art; you can see it in his face when he speaks to him. Prejudiced bastard."

"Cos he's gay?" I ask frowning, can anyone be so bloody narrow-minded in this day and age? Lestrade's expression says they can.

"That, and the fact that Art's a lord. McKay has a chip the size of Gibraltar on his shoulder. Fucking hell!" He growls and slams his hand on the table and Sherlock and I jump. "Why couldn't this have happened in London? It'd be sorted by now." He puts his head on his hands on the table. I look at Sherlock; his hands are under his chin in the familiar prayer position. His eyes have that gleam again which he's been sensitive enough to hide from Lestrade.

"Don't worry Geoff. I will be able to prove Art didn't do this." He says seriously. Lestrade picks his head up from the table.

"Really?" He looks lost but there's a ray of hope now across his tired face.

"I already have some ideas." Sherlock nods to himself and purses his lips.

"But you've not even been to the hotel yet. What can you possibly know Sherlock?" I ask him incredulously.

"There are some things in the world of crime John that are almost immutable facts. At least one of them is on our side." With that he closes his eyes and sits back in his seat, breathing deeply though his nose, thinking.

**Feel much better now I've got the adventure up and running! Don't try to solve it yet! Ha ah, I know you will. You lot area nightmare to keep ahead of, but I'm trying! Let me know what you think so far, your reviews make my day! Oh and 'Severin' is the name of the hero in the famous BDSM novel 'Venus in Furs' by Leopold von Sacher- Masoch, we get th term masochist from his name. **

**Thank you to the Baker Street Irregulars; PrincessNala and Peachsilk (just thanks, what did I do without you? :D) Darmed ( hoping you get to read this soon honey)Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll, thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal and Dead Air Space! Thank you so much!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	5. Sherlock on the case!

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

They've let Art go this afternoon because they haven't got a reason to hold him, but I know how the police work and I know they're looking really hard for a reason. The recipe and the fact that Art and Sebastian were lovers is enough to give even the least astute detective a hunch a mile wide. I know the look on McKay's face as he leaves the foyer of the hotel for the day. I've seen that look on my own face often enough. It says 'I'll get you, you bastard'. I don't like it one bit.

Art is putting on a brave face, he doesn't want me to worry but we both know how serious this could be.

"Sherlock's here? And John? Thanks Geoff." He smiles and leans his head against my shoulder as we take the lift up to the room where Sherlock and John are staying.

It's John that opens the door, Sherlock's in the background tapping on the laptop, which is all he's done since we got back to the hotel. He has addresses for Edinburgh postcodes scribbled onto a piece of paper beside him. He hasn't explained what he's doing and I've been on enough cases with him to know that this is his method. Most of the time I just let him do his thing, knowing that he'll talk when the time's right. This time it's bloody infuriating.

"God, Art, are you alright?" John hugs Art without thinking. He's such a warm, caring bloke. It's hard to imagine him in a warzone, until you see him wound up. Art hugs John back and then coughs politely when the hug goes on a little longer than is necessary. John grins and shakes his head, apologising. Sherlock looks up from the laptop screen.

"Art, hi, right, Sebastian's friends? I need a list. Here." He passes Art a piece of paper and a pen. He doesn't bother asking how he is.

"Aren't you going to ask him how he is?" John echoes my thoughts. Sherlock looks up from the screen again, face a blank mask. He frowns and shakes his head.

"At a guess he's feeling tired, scared, relieved to be out of the station and hoping I can solve this problem. Which I can, providing I don't have any more stupid interruptions from people making enquiries as to the whereabouts of my manners. Ok Art?" Art smiles and nods, shrugging at John and putting a hand on his shoulder to show it's ok, that he isn't offended. John twists his mouth and then smiles.

Art sits on the sofa and I sit next to him. I run my thumb in lazy circles over his palm while he drinks the tea which John has made for us all. Then he picks up the paper and starts to scribble.

"So, what did they ask you? What did they say when they let you go?" John asks, sitting forward. Art finishes the last name and passes the paper back to Sherlock.

"Well, they wanted to know how mine and Seb's relationship ended. They asked me if I knew he'd be here. And had I seen him after the scene in the restaurant."

"And what did they say about your answers?" I ask him, he looks at me, eyes dark ringed although I know he slept well; I think this stress has worn him out.

"Nothing. They just wrote it down. McKay asked me when we'd decided to stay in Edinburgh and why we'd come to the city in particular." I nod, all standard questions.

Sherlock stands up waving the list.

"John, we're going to interview these people. Art, Lestrade, get some rest. I need your brains functioning if we're going to get this resolved." John gets up, squeezes my shoulder and they leave.

Dr John Watson's POV

Sherlock's lack of manners is made up for by the thoroughness of his investigations and I know that, but I can't help feeling a bit hurt for Art when we leave without really doing much to help his emotional well being.

We're crossing the foyer, Sherlock's long strides just eating up the floor and me pacing after him, when we're stopped by a man wearing a tired suit and an even more tired expression. His sandy hair and pale skin make him look like he's been washed too many times and his colours have run. His watery eyes are pale blue and suspicious. Sherlock whirls on him, hand outstretched like a karate chop.

"Inspector McKay! A pleasure to meet you!" The inspector looks Sherlock up and down and I can almost see him making his mind up not to like him. He doesn't even glance at me.

"You have me at a disadvantage..." he mumbles still staring at Sherlock who towers over him like he does almost everyone.

"Yes, I do," nods Sherlock, not even considering telling the policeman his name, and starts to stride away. "Good afternoon Inspector! I have no doubt we will be meeting again soon!" He's out the revolving doors before McKay can say a word although I watch his pale colour slowly growing a livid red as I raise my eyebrows and follow Sherlock outside.

It's strange being inside a hackney cab in a city which isn't London but Sherlock shows the cabby the first address and then sits back in the seat, eyes closed, hands steepled under his chin.

"So, where who are we seeing? And was it wise to be so rude to that policeman?" I ask him sitting back in my own seat and eyeing the passing streets with suspicion.

Sherlock opens one eye wide; the other is still tightly shut. He raises one eyebrow and twists his mouth in annoyance.

"Luke Jennings," he waves the paper in front of me and I see this name is at the top of the list. "And the policeman? What a despicable little man, any inspector worth his salt would already know who I am." The eye closes and I'm left looking at Art's list.

There are five names, three men and two women. Next to them Art has scrawled a brief outline of how they knew Sebastian. I read the note next to Luke Jennings's name. 'Old school friend, probably closest to Seb.'

The other names have some weird hieroglyphics next to them which I realise are Sherlock's notes on these people. I can't read a bloody word of them so I fold the paper up and put it in my pocket.

The cab ride takes about twenty five minutes and I take advantage of the silence and Sherlock's lack of attention to watch him think.

He's fascinating like this. His eyes shift under the thin cover of his lids and his mouth purses and then widens to a grimace as he considers and discards his ideas. His pale skin is startling next to his dark hair, those long lashes fanning his cheeks, the dark curls falling over the collar of his coat. His long fingers and laced together and he flexes them slowly, like an anemone, delicate and deadly.

His long legs stretch out in front of him, primly crossed at the ankles, those long feet moving inside the soft leather of his shoes like a cat, padding the air. I follow the muscles of his legs until my gaze reaches his crotch. Even the slight folding and creasing of his trousers can bring me out in a cold sweat.

He's so self possessed, so confident and assured in his abilities and I enjoy one of those rare moments when I get to remember what he's like when he's not so in control, when he shouts my name, begs me to touch him. My heart is pounding and I watch his red tongue dart out and lick across his lips. I look up and his eyes are open and fixed on me.

"What?" he says seriously, intently. "What are you thinking John?" He asks again, leaning forward and capturing me in his gaze when I don't reply immediately.

"I was just looking at you." I say, deciding to tell the truth because it's utterly pointless to lie to him. He raises an eyebrow, cocks his head. "I was looking at you thinking. I was just remembering what you look like when we're in bed." He smiles widely, that shark smile.

"In bed? Is that really an accurate phrase for what you were thinking John?" I shake my head and twist my mouth. He laughs. "Well, that's nice to know. I was beginning to wonder if there was any point to me packing some of the things we bought yesterday." I splutter and he laughs. "What? It helps me think John!"

"Oh well, if it's going to help us save Art from prison then I will just have to do my duty." I say gravely.

"Think of England." Agrees Sherlock grinning. The cab stops and he leaps out.

The street is quite well off, as you'd imagine for someone who knows the sort of people with whom Art hangs around. Red stone houses, tall and regal, line the street in pairs connected by their neat gravelled drives and the same red stone walls. The windows and the roofs are embellished with curlicues and leaves. The street is silent, only a lone cat wanders along a wall, picking its way carefully through the ivy.

Sherlock stalks up one of the drives and I follow him, taking a moment to have a good look at Luke Jennings's house.

The front door is dark blue with silver door handle, letter box and numbers. The understatement speaks of careful wealth and this is matched by the expensive but not ostentatious car parked in the drive. Sherlock presses the door bell and a few moments later a young man wearing a blue sweater over a white shirt opens the door.

He must be quite young but he has the gravity of an older man. He's wearing dark blue jeans and shoes and the whole ensemble makes me think of a head boy or Julian from the Famous Five. His short blonde hair is neat and unfussy, his green eyes curious under his frowning eyebrows.

"Hello? Can I help you?" His accent is softly Scottish, very well educated, almost English. He smells slightly of alcohol. Sherlock puts out his hand, I expect him to be brusque, to the point, but that isn't Sherlock's plan.

"Hi, hi, my name's Gary Prince. I was a friend of Seb's. Bloody awful business. Look, god, this is awkward but...I wondered if it would be alright to talk? I just, well," Sherlock's voice breaks a little and I look at him in surprise which I quickly cover. "I just wanted to talk to someone about him, someone who knew him." Luke's face is softening from his initial reaction of suspicion. He nods and opens the door wider for us, gesturing for us to come in. Sherlock crosses the threshold and looks at me. I shrug; I have no idea who I am in this charade.

"This is my partner, John. He's just come up from London when he heard the news. God." Sherlock shakes his head, his voice sounds hoarse. Suddenly Luke looks like he might cry.

"Can I get you two a drink?" He says, wandering to a table where his own glass sits, already two thirds full of what looks like whisky. Sherlock nods and sniffs.

"Thanks Luke, I know this is a bit strange but, well Seb used to talk about you and..." Luke nods, passing Sherlock a whisky and gesturing to ask if I'd like one. I shake my head, one of us better stay sober. Luke sits down on the sofa opposite.

The room is furnished with well cared for antiques, understated gold and cream wall paper, a soft plush carpet. Like Luke's clothes it all seems to belong to an older man.

"Are you from Edinburgh?" Luke asks sipping his drink. "I don't think we've met before?" Sherlock shakes his head.

"No, no. I know, knew, Seb from London. I met him through a friend. I've known him quite a while now. He was always keen to come back to Scotland, talked about you a lot." Luke smiles mistily; I can see that this is not his first glass or whisky, not even his second. "I think he always regretted not being with you Luke, I hope it's ok to say that. " Luke smiles but I notice he glances to a picture on the window sill and then to the drive outside.

The picture shows two men, one of them is Luke Jennings, he's in shorts and a t-shirt and he is posing on a beach somewhere sunny and tropical. The man beside him, with his arm slung casually about Luke's waist is an older man, fit and athletic with short greying hair.

"That's sweet of you to say that..?" he stops, not remembering Sherlock's name.

"Gary," Sherlock's voice is soft, caressing. I am just sitting back watching this remarkable display of thespianism, it's amazing and disconcerting. Luke smiles and nods as though he recalls it now.

"I think I'll always regret it a little that I didn't tell him how I felt until it was too late..." Luke looks like he might cry again. To my utter surprise Sherlock puts his hand over the table and touches Luke's fingers where they grip his knee tightly. There is an electricity of sexual tension in the air so thick I feel like my hair might be standing on end. What the fuck is going on?

"He knew, he always knew, but he was never going to upset the life you had. I just wish I could have convinced him not to bother with that bloody Arthur Douglas." Luke's head goes up; it's a gesture I've seen from soldiers, bullish, angry. He slams his drink down on the table, it sloshes onto the veneer and pools around the bottom of the cut glass.

"That fucking man!" He stands up and paces away across to the window. His shoulders are heaving, his breath noisy across the room. I look at Sherlock; his face is an impassive mask. "Why couldn't he see that Seb loved him? All that stupid, stupid carrying on about bondage and whipping! Jesus!" He whirls around, nearly toppling over; Sherlock is on his feet, his hand at Luke's elbow. Luke lurches forward, almost falling into Sherlock. There is a long moment where their faces nearly touch. They both seem to have forgotten I am here. I just keep telling myself this is all an act.

"Why couldn't he just see what a special person Seb was? Why did he have to keep going on about how they weren't compatible, didn't want the same things." Luke's voice becomes a sour impression of Art's upper class English tone. Sherlock nods sympathetically.

"I know, I told him that. I told him he could find better. But he was smitten wasn't he?" Luke's hand comes up to brush Sherlock's cheek, he leans close to him. I stand up but Sherlock's hand, behind his back, invisible to Luke, waves me down. I sit sulkily,

"There were other people who loved him..." Luke says quietly. Sherlock nods.

"I never thought he'd... kill himself." He says in almost a whisper, his dark curls almost touching Luke's blonde hair. Luke nods.

"I know. When the police told me I told them, there must be some mistake. Seb would never just leave me... never just go without saying goodbye." The room is silent expect for their breathing. I think I am holding my breath. I still find it hard when Sherlock does this, some part of me sucked into his acting along with his victim.

They don't hear the big black Audi crunching its way onto the drive. I watch through the numbing double glaze as a big man, the older man from the photo gets out of the car an glances, smiling though the window. I watch as his smile turns murderous as he sees Sherlock and Luke together.

"Erm. Sorry to interrupt but I think Luke might need to just have a nice lie down now." I say pathetically aware of how lame my comment is, but I need to stop this scene before Sherlock gets his face punched.

Sherlock's eyes swivels to catch me in its gaze. I point frantically to the car outside and stretch my mouth in an expression of panic. He looks back at Luke who has his eyes closed now, tears streaming from beneath the blonde lashes.

The door bursts open, crashing against a polished table and causing the orchids in their pot to fall onto the floor. They spill soil and leaves everywhere. The door bounces back and hits the older man on the arm but he doesn't seem to notice.

"Luke! Who the hell is this? Who the hell are you?" He grabs Luke's arm and then Sherlock's like a father about to stop a fight between two boys.

Luke's eyes fly open and he looks terrified.

"Mark! Mark! This is Gary, he's a friend of..." His voice peters out and it looks like he's realising that the end of this sentence is not going to make things any better.

"Sebastian? Is that that who he was friends with? Well, that makes it all alright to be kissing him in our house doesn't it?" He pushes Sherlock with both hands, his muscled arms standing out under the expensive shirt he's wearing; his tie looking like it might throttle him as his veins on his neck stand out. "Is it not bad enough that the little shit won't leave you alone, without his friends coming to my house and trying it on?" he sounds like he might punch someone, and that someone will be Sherlock.

Luke has hold of the arm which is coming back to barrel a fist into Sherlock's nose.

"Mark! Don't! He was just coming to talk to me about Seb. Nothing was happening. Look, there's his boyfriend." He lets go of Mark's arm long enough to point a shaky finger at me. Mark's attention switches. I decide I'd better do something fast. I grab Sherlock's coat and pull him towards the door.

"Grief!" I exclaim as I drag Sherlock to the door. "It's grief, he's just upset!" I turn to Sherlock whose face is back to the blank canvas he likes to wear when he considers expression unnecessary.

"That's the last time you ever treat me like that! Practically snogging someone in front of me, you bastard!" I slap his face and drag him out of the door. My mind is racing and I'm hoping I was convincing.

Mark comes to the door as I shove Sherlock out on the street.

"Make sure you keep him on a lead in future, if he comes around here again, there'll be more trouble!" He snarls. I nod at him.

"I will. Don't you worry. I could kill him. You!" I point at Sherlock who is trying not to smile, his lips twisted in mirth. "Walk! Now!" He turns and starts off down the street, arms swinging like he hasn't a care in the world. I shrug at the hulking form of Mark, massive in the doorway.

"You should find yourself someone better, someone who doesn't flaunt his affairs in front of you." He says in a steady voice even though he is still breathing heavily,

"I know. I will." I nod as I make off down the street, following Sherlock's flapping coat tails.

When I catch up with him around the corner he is bent over laughing. The utter bastard.

"Fucking hell." I slap his arm and he turns his face to me, grinning like a madman.

"Don't slap me again!" He wheezes, unable to control his amusement.

"What the _actual_ fuck was that about? I ask him, leaning back against the wall. "What the _actual_ fuck were you doing?" He stands up, still grinning.

"Gathering clues." I frown.

"What? What clues? It just looked to me like you were smooching another posh boy and nearly getting your head kicked in!"

"Did it?" he arches a brow at me. "Well, I should enlighten you to the erroneous nature of you assumptions John. We now have a suspect other than Art, a motive for murder and..." I stare at him, my brain just slotting the past hour's events into place.

"And..?" I prompt.

"And you got to play the jealous boyfriend! Lestrade's going to love this!"

**Sorry this has been a longer wait than I usually have for you. I had a mad week with no childcare, friends visiting and lots of decorating to be done. I hope this was worth the wait. It's nearly killed me not being able to get this written up! Let me know what you think of the plot developments and what you liked...**

**As always I have to thank the Baker Street Irregulars; PrincessNala and Peachsilk (thanks so much for keeping me sane with your PMs when things were fraught.) Darmed (hoping that you're just getting better and better babes! Sorry I haven't replied but things have been crazy, now am back on track!) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild! (sorry to post a new one when you're just catching up!) , Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (hope your mad week goes ok babes), thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal and Dead Air Space! Thank you so much, it's just brilliant to hear from you all!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	6. How to relieve tension

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

When John and Sherlock leave there is a strange silence between us. We sit on the sofa, hands still touching, saying nothing. It seems like the enormity of what is going on about us is stifling, crushing the delicate web of our new relationship. I hate it.

"Art, is there something I can do? Run you a bath? Rub your shoulders? Fuck off and leave you alone?" I really don't know what to do or say and so this all comes rushing out sounding slightly breathless and exasperated. He doesn't answer right away and I'm ready to pack my things, get a new room and give him some space when I realise he is looking at me with those mesmeric dark blue eyes.

"What? Just tell me. God! I hate this, not knowing what I can do to make it right!" He smiles now, a soft smile, his head slightly lowered so he's looking at me through his lashes. The look he gives me makes me shiver.

"Sir?" Just the tone of his voice, just this one word, has me tingling all over. I feel my back straighten, my posture responding to the title. "Do you think you could help me forget about all this, Sir?" He sounds unsure, shy. I appreciate the balls it takes to ask something like this, off the bat, cold. I don't want to leave him like this, not when he's showing so much trust in me.

"Of course Arthur." I say, standing up and reaching for his hand. I pull him to his feet. His head is still lowered so I raise his chin with my fingers and kiss him. He leans into the kiss, surrendering already to this game. I feel myself getting hard; feel the buzzing of my blood becoming urgent. "Go into the bedroom, let me get some things." He nods and starts off towards the room.

When he's gone I unpack the bags looking for the tape, the crop and the paddle. I have no idea if I'll use them all but already a plan is starting to form in my head. I look at the three objects for a moment, getting myself into the right frame of mind with a few exploratory swings of the crop and then the paddle. I take off my jacket, my shoes and my tie.

When I get into the bedroom I realise I haven't told Art what to do. He's kneeling on a cushion and his head is down, his hands clasped behind his back. I'm presuming this is how these things start, I really don't know. I make a mental note to talk to him about this sometime later. Right now I have better things to be thinking about.

I'm probably just being a bloke but him kneeling there says one thing to me. I walk over to him and run my hand through the back of those blonde curls, relishing the softness and the hiss he gives when I pull his head back sharply. I'm not sure how to issue my next request, command, my brain corrects itself, so I just say it.

"Suck my cock Arthur." He whimpers and his hands come up to the zip of my trousers. He unfastens them and runs his fingers over my shorts, my erection obvious and hard in front of his face. My breathing is heavy, laboured and so is his. He pulls down my shorts and I feel his breath on my skin. Without hesitation he opens his mouth and does that amazing trick where he takes all of me, all at once. I gasp, the heat and the wet of his mouth is indescribably intense, made more so by this game we are playing.

"Slow down." I tell him firmly, feeling myself going too near that edge, too soon. Obediently he pulls back inch by inch, leaving the tip of my cock on his full bottom lip. It's wrong that it looks so good. So wrong that it just makes it even better.

Even though this feels fucking amazing the pace gives me time to think. I really want to use at least the paddle and the tape on him. I want him to let go of all this tension and I think bondage and some spanking might just help him. Oh, and a good hard shag.

I grab his hair and pull him back along me until his nose touches my skin. He is moaning in his throat, the vibrations shiver though me, I feel the blood pounding in my cock, thrumming through my body. With the grip on his hair I slide myself in and out of those red, swollen lips. Looking down at him, beautiful in his surrender, is too much for me. I'm going to come if we keep this up much longer. I pull myself out of his mouth. I try to remember what little I have seen from bondage pornos over the years. What happens next?

"Thank me Arthur." He doesn't hesitate; his soft, well educated voice answers me right away.

"Thank you Sir, for letting me suck your cock." God. The words just heighten the energy between us. I feel the invisible stringing of desire binding us closely. I need to take things to the next level and I've already thought of how I'm going to do it.

"Get on the bed Arthur, face down. I didn't like the way you used your mouth on me and I think I need to punish you if you're going to remember to do a better job next time." He bows his head and moves to the bed, lies himself face down. Damn, he's still dressed. Hadn't thought of that.

"I don't want you dressed Arthur. That's going to earn you five more blows with the paddle. Get up and take those clothes off." He stands up and I see a faint smile on his face. The little bugger is playing this game too. Right.

I rearrange my trousers; sit down in the plush hotel armchair and cross my legs.

"Take them off Arthur. No wobbling, I want this to be graceful not some rugby changing room." I watch him as he pulls his t shirt over his head revealing those smooth muscles, the light down on his chest, the dark pink of his nipples. Carefully he flicks off his shoes and balances on one leg to take off his sock. I can see the concentration on my face and this just makes me harder still.

Something about the fact that he is doing as I say, not like the blokes at work who do it because I'm the boss, he's doing this because it's something sexual, sensual. He manages one sock and then the other without a wobble. His hands go to the waistband of his trousers and he unbuckles his belt.

My mouth is dry; I can feel my blood pulsing in my crotch. I wonder if all Dominants feel so fucking horny that they might never get to the spanking. But then I remember the swish of that paddle, the way I imagined it would feel coming down on Art's smooth skin, the sound he would make as the velvet made contact. There's no question, I have to do this.

He unfastens his trousers slowly, teasing me with the barest sight of his skin. His hands on his hips, he wiggles them down, leaving his shorts on as he steps out of the trouser legs. His erection is evident in the thin cotton of his black shorts. His hand brushes against it as he stands up to take them off. I can hear my heart pounding as he moans slightly at the contact of his own fingers.

He pulls down his shorts. His cock is hard and the head glistens in the dim afternoon light which filters through the heavy voile curtains. I lick my lips involuntarily.

"Good boy Arthur. Lie down on the bed." He turns and lies over the edge of the bed, groaning as he traps his cock beneath him. I go over to him, surveying his body like a prize. I push down on his backside, grinding that tender, swollen skin into the bed clothes. He moans again, it sounds like my name.

"What did you say Arthur?" I ask him softly, menacingly. His face is to one side and he gasps his answer.

"Oh god, Sir, I'm so turned on I don't think I can wait." I tut and he twists his face in frustration.

"Well, you'll have to Arthur. Be a good boy and I'll have you screaming when you come." I'm impressed with my own inventiveness; I think I have a gift for this. "So, that's ten smacks with the paddle for not sucking my cock how I like it, five for not getting undressed and five for speaking when you're not instructed to speak. How many is that Arthur?" I pick up the paddle and swish it about menacingly.

"Twenty Sir." He says quietly. I nod and bring back my arm. I see him tense, I want him to let all of that go, all the thinking and worrying gone in one extreme moment of sensuality.

The first blow is on his right buttock, he flinches, gasps. By the time we get to five, alternating from left to right with each blow, he is twisting on the bed and I can tell from his movements he's not trying to escape the paddle, just create more friction for himself against the bed. I pick up the tape.

"You're not being still Arthur, so I'm going to tape you up." He moans and thrusts against the bed. I grab his leg and hitch one knee up, taking his cock away from the bed. I pull a long stretch of tape and bite it off with my teeth. I fasten his ankle to the bed post, knee positioned on the bed, arse in the air. The tape sticks to itself, holding him tightly. I move to the other leg and position it in the same way so that he is keeling with his legs apart, ankles pinned to the bedposts. His cock swings between his legs, his arse is vulnerable tempting and at just the right angle for me to fuck him. Eventually.

I slip a hand under his body and caress the length of him. He bucks wildly against the air, the position of his body forcing him down on his elbows. I pump him slowly with one hand. He groans, pleads, whimpers. It just gets me harder, meaner.

I bring back the paddle and give him five more blows in quick succession, all on the right buttock, all making his cock bounce invitingly and he squeals into the bedclothes.

"That's ten. When I fuck you Arthur your arse is going to be sore from all this spanking. You're going to feel every thrust, boy." I don't know where it comes from, this last word. But I don't care because the noise he makes, the movement of his body, are just amazing.

I've got to be honest; I rush through those last ten, placing them wherever I want, no pattern, no warning. I wait with the last three, leaving the length of time between them so he can't calculate when they will land. His backside is pink, shiny.

He is desperate now; I can feel it in the tension of his body, the tiny thrusting and bucking which escapes his self control. I grab the lube, cover my hard on and grab his hips.

I push myself into him; the pressure and the heat of his body are overwhelming. He growls and pushes back against me, demanding more, harder.

"Do you want this?" I ask him, "are you desperate for my cock in you?" He nods, gasping, past speech. I slap his arse as I thrust forward. His head comes back and I grab his hair with one hand, his cock with the other. We lose our rhythm, frantic, frenzied, skin slapping against skin as we push ourselves past all the worry, the stress.

"Come for me; tell me who you belong to Arthur!" I growl as I feel my orgasm building. I pull his hair when he doesn't respond, another slap.

"Oh you! I belong to you Sir! Oh!" He comes in my hand, I give three more sharp thrusts and I follow him, stars behind my tightly shut eyes, blood washing in my ears.

When I get my breath back, I pull out of him. I unpeel the tape, carefully placing each leg back on the bed, rubbing up the muscle like my old football coach taught us after a match. I stroke his back, his hair, I kiss his forehead and he smiles.

"Thanks," he says in a much more normal voice that I have heard him use since this whole thing began. "I needed that." He smiles. I kiss him again.

"Shall I run you a bath, babes?" I ask him, catching the endearment as it comes out of my mouth. He smiles wider, opens his eyes.

"That would be gorgeous darling." He smiles. I chuckle.

Dr John Watson's POV

Sherlock insists we go back to the hotel to eat with Art and Lestrade when we finish at Luke Jenning's house. He won't tell me where we're going after that but I'm presuming it's another name on the list.

Lestrade meets us in the bar, walking over to the table looking tired. Sherlock comes back from buying our drinks and gives us all a pint glass. Lestrade nods his thanks, sits down and sips his drink.

"Is Art recovering from the fucking?" Sherlock asks bluntly as he sits down. I splutter my drink and Lestrade just smirks. "Paddle, crop or just your hand?" he adds, sipping his pint. I look at them in amazement.

"Yes, he's in the bath, he's a bit sore." Lestrade twitches his nose, trying not to laugh. "And paddle. Didn't get round to the crop, this time." He finishes, drinking a long draft of his pint. "You missed the bondage tape though, tut, tut. You're slacking Sherlock." He mentions this as he puts down his drink.

"Bondage tape?" I ask, slightly freaked out by the casual way they're discussing Lestrade's sex life.

"Yes, it's fucking brilliant John, you should get some. No messing about with cuffs with this stuff. Fast and reliable." He nods to himself, like he's talking about a car. I goggle at them both.

"Feel better?" Sherlock asks smiling and sitting back in his chair. Lestrade nods and stretches like the cat that got the cream. "Good. Do you think Art will be hungry?" Lestrade nods again smiling wider this time.

"I should imagine he will, we expended some energy this afternoon." Sherlock and Lestrade laugh. I clap my hands over my ears.

"Stop! Stop! I can't believe we're just sitting here talking about you fucking Art, Geoff! Isn't that private?" Lestrade looks at me, his lower lip sticking out.

"He started it." He points at Sherlock who is smiling with one side of his mouth.

"I was nothing to do with it, I was out questioning suspects." Sherlock retorts smirking. They laugh again. At this point Art comes in and I hope things are going to get more civilised. I can dream can't I?

He sits down with a mock wince. Sherlock and Lestrade laugh even more and Art grins. I shake my head.

"How did you get on with the list?" Art asks and the atmosphere becomes slightly more sober.

"We met Luke Jenning's angry partner." I say putting down my glass and sitting back in my chair.

"Oh god, you didn't mention me did you? He'd go fucking mental." Art looks genuinely concerned. Sherlock nods and grins.

"Hmm. He did seem a little 'mental' when he heard your name. You have that effect on people Art."

"What did you find out?" Lestrade asks, all policeman now. "Did they know anything that might help?" He is frowning, all that relaxation gone to waste I think as I register the tension in his posture.

"It was very enlightening but I didn't learn anything by going into the house which I couldn't tell from the outside. Still, it's all information. There are more interesting names on that list." Sherlock is enigmatic; he doesn't like to reveal his ideas until he's certain of their veracity.

"What could you tell from the outside?" I can't help but ask him, the way his brain works is fascinating. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands laced together, supporting his chin. He closes his eyes as he talks us through his deductions.

"Well, nice house, not where I'd expect a young man to buy a property so I guessed Luke had moved in with someone, someone older, more sedate. The car reinforced this notion. Expensive but not gaudy, a present rather than something he'd buy himself, again this pointed to the older lover, someone who pays the bills, buys him presents. The second set of tyre tracks in the gravel were from an Audi R8, nice model but showy...what?" His eyes snap open, he looks at me as I shake my head.

"How the hell do you know that? I suppose you've studied car tyre tracks?" Sherlock looks at Lestrade who is nodding.

"Yep, last year, that business with the nuns. He knew all the models we showed him." He taps his head with his finger and Sherlock grins ruefully.

"I even got the one that Anderson made up to try to fool me." He says, Lestrade laughs.

"Ok, I believe you. Bloody hell. Carry on." I wave my pint glass.

"So I knew he had an older lover, rich and possessive. No one buys you everything unless they want to own you." He adds, almost to himself. It makes me think of his ex, Andrew the surfer dude, I wonder if he was possessive? "So there must have been some tension with Seb, after all I guessed that he and Luke if they weren't lovers were actually close enough to have some drunken fumblings." He cocks his head. "The rest was elementary, but it helped to have things confirmed." He nods to himself, finishes his drink.

"Are you any closer to knowing who killed Sebastian? If he was murdered I mean?" I ask him. He nods.

"I already have an ideas but if you don't mind John, I'd like to have things confirmed before we go to McKay with the evidence. I get the impression he's not someone who's going to take my word for it." He clears his throat and stands up, tugging down his jacket in that way of his.

"So, dinner?"

**I'm making up for lost time! As you've probably already gathered I'm on a mission to being more realistic kinky sex to the Sherlock fandom. How did I do? As always, I'd love to hear your views. Your reviews, encouragement, funny comments and suggestions make my day! Thank you!**

**And my wonderful Baker Street Irregulars, what would I do without you?; PrincessNala (hope you're ok)and Peachsilk (a tip of the hat for the Audi, being a great friend and not being mad at me for teasing) Darmed (hoping that you're just getting better and better babes! Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (hope the thesis and the musical go well!) thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal and Dead Air Space! Thank you so much, I really treasure your support!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	7. Jennifer Samuels

Dr John Watson's POV

Laura and Rose arrive as we finish dinner. Laura sweeps in like she owns the place, sending waiters scurrying for more chairs and drinks.

"Darling," she kisses Art on the cheek and then holds him at arm's length before hugging him to her. "How are you? What's happening?" Before he can answer she turns to Sherlock. "Have you solved it?" She is frowning, intense; Rose puts her hand on Laura's arm.

"Steady now Lo, Sherlock and John only just got here." Her soft accent and her concerned look at the rest of us bring Laura's impatience down a notch. Laura nods but still looks questioningly at Sherlock.

He looks up from his dessert and raises an eyebrow.

"Good evening Laura. I am some way towards solving the situation, yes. But my theories will need proof and evidence if they are to help Art out at all. And so, John and I are just leaving." He gets up and begins to pull out my chair. I stand up hurriedly.

"Where...?" Both Lestrade and I begin the sentence. Sherlock puts his hand into my trouser pocket and fumbles about in there for much longer than he needs to, grinning at my alarmed expression. He removes his hand and flourishes the list of Sebastian's friends. He reads the next name on the list out loud.

"Jennifer Samuels. I think she's expecting us." I hug Laura and Rose, clap Art on the shoulder, Lestrade gives me a little wave.

"We'll probably be in the bar when you get back." He says pointing through the restaurant. I nod.

In the taxi Sherlock is studying the note closely. He takes out a phone from his pocket, my phone I notice. Since his other one was broken he's reverted back to stealing mine. He taps the screen impatiently, annoyed that the technology isn't keeping up with his brain. I sneak a look at the screen, he's checking his emails. There's one from'.uk' and one from a domestic address which appears to be someone called 'JoStanley'. I have no idea about either of them.

He looks up at me, smiles and puts his hand on my knee and squeezes. I smile, amazed not for the first time by the way his smile lights up his face, animates those serious features.

"So, Jennifer Samuels, what do we know about her?" I ask him. He takes back his hand and goes back to tapping the screen, not even bothering to look up as he answers me.

"Friend of Sebastian's in London. Came rushing up here when she heard about Sebastian's death. By all accounts a lovely woman." He doesn't sound at all interested in her so I'm presuming she's just a name to cross off the list.

"What does she do?" I look out of the window at the bright lights of the city as they whizz by us.

"She runs a charity, something to do with the homeless; she was charity worker of the year in 2005." He is still tapping the screen. He gives it a final resounding poke and then puts it back in his pocket. "John, before we get there..."

"Yes?" I lean forward expecting this to be like an army briefing, don't say he's going to actually reveal his methods to me? Bloody hell.

"I think you should talk to Art about the paddle. " He sits back in his seat and gazes out of the window. I sigh, so much for briefing.

"You do? Why?" He looks back at me and fixes me with that pale blue stare. I swallow. When he speaks his voice is dark, predatory.

"Because I want to use it." I try to say something intelligent and open minded. I open my mouth.

"Oh." I say, eloquent John, really eloquent.

"And because it'll help to take his mind off all this." I sit for a moment and look at the impassive face which has just said these words. This is one of the reasons I love him. Because, in the middle of a case, whilst continuing to shock me with his sexual appetite and casual attitude to things that most people would consider taboo, Sherlock really cares. He's not a sociopath, although I can understand why people who don't know him might make the assumption. He's just not wired like the rest of us.

The rest of the journey is quiet. I run the idea about talking to Art about the paddle and about Sherlock using it thought my head. I've got to admit that, since the evening with the crop, my attitude to these kinds of things has taken quite a u turn. The memory of that night is burnt in a hot scar across my thoughts, I've found myself remembering that sting, that extreme sensation, at the most inopportune moments. But the paddle is a new idea.

For a start I can't see how it could deliver that delicious sting I now realise I am beginning to crave. But even as my mind turns over this point my body is whispering that the broad face of the paddle would burn and inflame. Oh god. I shift in my seat and Sherlock's eyes drop to my crotch and then back to my face, a slow, frightening smile curving those pointed lips. Oh bloody hell.

The cab carries us through the city streets. Although Sherlock doesn't speak he does watch me intently, occasionally wetting his lips with his sharp tongue. By the time the cab pulls in to our destination I am nearly convinced that I will enjoy the paddle. And he hasn't spoken a word.

He opens the door and gestures for me to get out while he pays the driver. I am halfway out of the door before I realise that he usually passes the money through the driver's window and that my position leaves him right behind me, but it's too late. That long fingered hand slaps down on my backside arousing that burgeoning consciousness of pain and pleasure. It stings, then burns and then he rubs over my muscles with his palm. The sensation, the idea of the action, goes right to my cock. I splutter, turn half outraged towards him and he pushes me out onto the pavement. The cab drives away and Sherlock pulls me to him, out of the pools of yellow streetlights and into the shadows between. He kisses me fiercely; I can feel his heart beating under his ribs. He releases me and puts his hands in his pockets, grinning

"Just keep that thought percolating John." he says darkly. I can do nothing but nod numbly.

It takes me a moment to stop my body fighting my brain for control. I close my eyes, take three deep breaths and then open them. The street is crowded with expensive apartment buildings. Sherlock is watching me with one arched brow.

"Ready?" He says in a far more normal voice. I nod again, he grins.

He goes to a door made from pale wood and brushed metal, it's all very Scandinavian. The voice that answers his buzz on the intercom is muffled from the static and the low quality speakers. The door hums and clicks, Sherlock pushes the door and we go in.

The atrium of the building is in the same style. The design is all angles, cut out squares in the walls harbour soft yellow lights. There's a desk for some kind of attendant but no on is manning the CCTV screens right now. The lift is a glass and veneer affair which seems to run on magic, the technology is all hidden. Only the screen which indicates the floors past which we are gliding past shows any touch of the modern world. The buttons are rounded, wooden, organic. It's like a future world or a parallel dimension where our current trend for computers and gadgets is considered vulgar.

Jennifer Samuels is waiting for us at the door of her apartment when the lift doors swish open. Her expression is warm and friendly and I instantly like her. She has green eyes under dark, sculpted brows and her mouth is humorous and slightly crooked. Jet black hair cropped into a 20s style bob falls just below her ears. She's wearing a black velvet jogging suit, obviously expensive but comfortable and her feet are bare, her scarlet toenails flash from beneath the wide hems of her trouser legs.

"Hello, you must be John and Sherlock!" she says warmly and grabs my hand. I'm not used to people noticing me first when Sherlock is around and I suppose I feel pleased when she shakes my hand firmly and then smiles at Sherlock. "Come in, I'm just pouring a drink, can I get you anything?" She turns to me and then to Sherlock and smiles again. "Beer? A spirit?"

"A beer would be great." I say and Sherlock shakes his head.

"Nothing for me thanks, I might be driving later." I look at him as she goes into what is obviously the kitchen, he winks back and I feel myself flush. Oh, driving, right.

While Jennifer is gone I take the chance to look about the room. She has some really unusual collections of art here, all in red, black and white. One piece is particularly striking. It is a painting of London, it takes up the whole wall and the entire skyline is picked out in black and red on a stark white background. It takes up an entire wall and it's the sort of thing you could look at for hours and always see something new. The colour scheme seems to spill into the other rooms I can see though an open doorway.

When Jennifer comes back with a beer for me and one for herself she sees me looking at the picture.

"It's amazing," I say standing up to get a closer look. "The detail, the colour. Who's it by?" She flicks her hair back from her cheek self consciously as she replies.

"Me. It's one of mine. Oh god, how embarrassing. I'm awful about this sort of thing, sorry. I don't usually have people up here so it's one place I didn't worry about hanging it."

"Well, I like it, it's really striking." It occurs to me that the painting is very much like its creator. I suddenly get the idea that Jennifer and Laura would love each other. There's something very dominant about her style even in those soft clothes.

Jennifer laughs uncomfortably and touches my arm.

"I am useless at compliments John. Honestly, it's cringe worthy. Let's pretend you never asked eh?" She covers her eyes with her hands, laughing and I laugh with her. I notice Sherlock is not. So does Jennifer.

"So, Sherlock, how can I help you? I'm sorry that your friend's been dragged into this dreadful situation. What an awful shock it must have been for him. How's he holding up?" She looks concerned as she sits down with her drink, indicating that we should sit down too. I pick a very square black leather armchair and Sherlock perches on the edge of the boxy, red leather sofa.

"Do you know Art?" Sherlock's voice is brusque, I look at him in surprise, his face is impassive. I know he can be rude but I just can't see why he'd treat this woman like this, after all she's grieving for her friend.

"It's very good of you to see us considering your recent bad news..." I interrupt, hoping to smooth over Sherlock's blunt manner. She smiles at me and cocks her head to one side. Then she looks at Sherlock.

"I can't help Seb now," her mouth twists up and her eyes are wide, I can tell she's trying not to cry. "But if I can help your friend then I've done something good with this whole awful situation." She presses a red nailed finger to her eye and flicks away a tear, straightening her shoulders and taking a long breath.

"So, how can I help?"

"How long did you know Seb, Jennifer?" Sherlock asks, crossing his legs. She sits back in the armchair and bites her lip, thinking.

"Ages, it must be, oh, seven years now, since university. We all studied up here you know, St Andrews. We were a bit of a gang I suppose, Seb, Luke, Tamsyn and I. Have you met Tamsyn?" She frowns and I shake my head. Sherlock looks at me sideways. "She'll be here tomorrow. We own this apartment together."

This last comment makes me feel uncomfortable and, before I get chance to analyse the sensation, my mouth asks a question.

"Are you and Tamsyn..?" I wave my hand vaguely. Jennifer laughs.

"Lovers? Oh god, no!" she chuckles again, obviously the idea is hilarious. I smile uncertainly and she leans across and touches my knee. "Sorry, I'm not laughing at you but, well, when you meet Tamsyn you'll see what I mean. We're not compatible at all. And anyway, I like men far too much." She looks at me for a long moment.

"So you knew Seb when he was with Art then?" Sherlock asks, his voice sounds cold, frostier than usual. I look at him but his face is giving nothing away. Jennifer nods.

"Don't think I ever met him though. Oh, maybe once actually, at a party. But we never talked much, but I know all about him. You couldn't be friends with Seb and not know about the amazing and gorgeous Lord Arthur Douglas." She sighs, as though she's just remembered that Seb is dead and he won't be talking about Art any more. She finishes her beer and I get the impression she's just occupying herself, distracting her brain from the horrible truth that her good friend is dead.

"So how do you share the apartment with Tamsyn?" Sherlock asks and he sounds like he's reading the questions from a list in his head.

"Her parents live up here and I come here for work but we're rarely in the city at the same time. It seemed silly to buy two places so we just bought one. It's been very convenient really." She smiles at me. Sherlock regards us both coolly. I'm concerned his lack of social grace is going to alienate Jennifer. What was I saying earlier about him being wired differently?

"Well, it's gorgeous place. What's the view like?" I get up and cross to the wide wall of windows which flanks the apartment. "Wow." I breathe as I see the vista spread out before me. The castle, lit up like something from a fairy tale, perches on its rock and the old streets of Edinburgh twinkle out below it. Jennifer is behind me, I can feel her breath on my neck; her perfume is soft and smells of roses, it's feminine and musky.

"I know. That's why we had to buy it. The views the same from the bathroom. And the bedroom." She adds. I am ultra aware of her presence, it's like her aura is a palpable, warm thing which spills out of her. "Sometimes I just run a bath and turn off the lights and look at it all."

There is no noise but a clock ticking quietly somewhere in another room. Jennifer clears her throat and finishes her beer. She takes my empty bottle from my hands.

"Another?" I nod and she smiles and goes off into the kitchen. I turn to Sherlock.

I have never seen an expression of such fury, such outrage, as there is written large on his face. His brows are pinched together, his lips in a tight knot of anger. It's so startling that I am utterly taken aback. I open my mouth to speak but Jennifer comes back with the beers and Sherlock's expression melts away as though it never existed. Indeed, its sudden disappearance leaves me wondering if it was ever there at all.

Jennifer gives me the bottle and sits down opposite Sherlock. I stay by the window, back to them both listening to their conversation but looking at the city.

"When did you get to Edinburgh?" Sherlock asks. I don't know if it's because I can't see his face or if I am only imagining the cold tone of his voice. Either way, Jennifer seems not to notice.

"Last night. I came as soon as I could, when the police phoned me. You know Seb didn't have any family." Her voice breaks a little and I turn to see her dabbing her eyes with a tissue. Sherlock's being too harsh.

I cross the room and put my hand on Jennifer's shoulder. She looks up at me, her eyes are glittering with tears and the down turn of her mouth is a sure emblem of her grief.

"I'm sorry we have to ask these questions..." I begin but Sherlock interrupts me,

"Was Sebastian the suicidal type?" He asks bluntly. Jennifer looks up at him, her cheeks slick with tears. She shakes her head, then shrugs.

"How does anyone know that? I don't know. I would have said no but, well; he had become obsessed with Arthur. Then he found out about the new boyfriend, the policeman."

I turn so my body is facing hers.

"Geoff? He found out about Geoff? How?" I ask and she twists her lips and shrugs.

"I don't know, but he came to my flat in London. He was crying and drunk. Oh god..." she starts to sob. She puts her face in her hands and I watch her shoulders heave with the power of her emotions.

I put my hand on her shoulder again. I don't know what to say. There's something so vibrant, so cheerful about her that seeing her like this, broken, is just wrong.

"Look, we should go. Thanks for helping us Jennifer; we're sorry we've upset you with our questions. Really, it was great of you to see us at such a hard time." Sherlock is already at the door.

Jennifer lifts her head. Her makeup has run and the black suit has now taken on a funereal air. She sniffs.

"Sorry John. I keep forgetting it's all really happened and then..." she shrugs again and I nod. I remember what it was like when my parents died. How guilty I felt when I forgot even for a moment.

"It's ok. It does get easier. I promise." I say to her. She nods and gives a weak smile. We let ourselves out.

Sherlock doesn't say anything to me until we are in the cab and it's me who breaks the silence anyway.

"What's wrong with you?" I ask, a little snappily because I'm still annoyed at how he treated Jennifer. He turns his head slowly; the pale eyes are huge, almost white to the pupil in this light. The effect is unsettling.

"Me? Nothing is wrong with me John, nothing at all. You, however, seem to have some things to deal with." He turns back to look out of the window. What? What the hell is he on about now?

"Eh? I have some things to deal with? What does that mean?" He doesn't look at me when he speaks. I see him lick his lips disdainfully.

"Even someone who wasn't the world's only consulting detective would have been able to see exactly what was going on between you and Miss Samuels, John." The sentence floors me. I have absolutely no idea what he is getting at. Yes you do John, whispers a guilty voice inside my head. I try to ignore it.

"I don't know what you mean. " I say flatly, my brain scouring itself for traces of inappropriate thoughts. He looks at me now and I wish he wouldn't. His gaze is cold; he's never looked at me like that before.

"I suppose I'm not used to seeing you so sexually attracted to someone else before." His tone is neutral but his eyes hold me dangerously. I get the feeling that if I make one wrong move he will pounce. I pause to think.

"You're right. I suppose I did feel attracted to her. I didn't really register it until you said that but, well, yes I suppose I did. Sorry," I add in a lame afterthought.

"You don't need to apologise to me." He says looking out of the window again. I watch the city lights distort his face and it hits me again, shocking me like it always does.

It hits me again how much I fucking love this man. How much I want him above anyone else, above anyone I have ever met and will ever meet. And now he's hurt because of some stupid pheromones. I touch his hand. It stays on his knee, unresponsive.

"Sherlock," His eyes slide to me, he doesn't turn his face and the gesture strikes me as one borne of fear. It cuts me to the quick. I kneel down in the cab, grabbing his knees to steady myself. "Sherlock." He looks at me, head back as though the distance will protect him.

"I'm sorry. I really am. I didn't even think about it. I think I was attracted to Jennifer, Miss Samuels, but that doesn't mean anything. This, this..." I kiss him, crushing his soft lips with my mouth. "This is not about just attraction anymore. It's about everything else. I love you."

His eyes are heavy lidded, untrusting. He twists his mouth. I try harder.

"Sherlock, I love you, I find you so attractive that sometimes I think if I look at you too long I might just implode from thinking all the things I think about you." His mouth quirks up at the edge. "Bloody hell, I'm prepared to let you use the paddle..." He stops my sentence with a kiss, I feel his tongue exploring my mouth and it's like touching a battery. Electricity zips though me. I vaguely feel concern for the poor Scottish cab driver, I'm sure the London cabbies are immune now, they probably have wanted posters of us up in their offices.

He doesn't stop kissing me until the cab pulls up at the hotel and my heart is beating my blood through my body at an alarming rate. He pulls back and looks me in the eye.

"Prove it." he says darkly.

**So, I managed to squeeze a chapter in when everyone was in bed. I'd be interested as always to hear what you all think. And I wanted to tell you that there's a fan meet for Sherlock on the 27****th**** of November. I'll be there with my good friend Veritybuns and it'd be great to see you if you can make it. Pm me and I'll send you the livejournal link.**

**Hey Baker Street Irregulars, I love it when I get your insightful, witty and kind review s and messages. You really make this writing experience so much better. PrincessNala (tell those workmen o stop Fing with your connection!)and Peachsilk (excited!) Darmed (hoping that you're just getting better and better babes! Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (hope the thesis and the musical are going well!) thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal and Dead Air Space! Cheers for being on this journey with me and the boys!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	8. The Paddle

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

When Sherlock and John come back it's clear something's gone on. John looks like a bunny in the headlights and Sherlock stalks into the bar like a panther in a bad mood. Laura is in the middle of entertaining us with the story from Stefan in 'De Sade's' and we all shut up when we see their faces. They're not going to find much funny in this mood.

"Did it go ok?" Art asks, obviously worried by the atmosphere rolling off them like a cold sea mist. John nods and smiles a wan smile. Sherlock goes straight to the bar. I follow him, let Laura, Rose and Art talk to John, I might get more out of Sherlock.

"You alright?" I ask him as I lean on the bar with my elbows and he looks at me sideways. It's a sardonic, eyebrow raised expression. I grin disarmingly, he smirks. I win. I nudge him.

"So, _are_ you alright?" I repeat taking the pint he's bought me and nodding my thanks.

"Hmm. Not sure." He sighs and rubs his hand over his face, he looks tired. "Geoff? What would you do if Art found someone else attractive?" He doesn't look at me, he gazes into his pint as though the answers are in the swirl of the foamy head.

So, this is what it's about? John fancies someone else? I can't see it happening and my expression must show this because now he does look at me. That curious, inquisitive expression he uses on corpses. Nice.

"If Art found someone else attractive?" I ask, he nods, looking back into the pint for inspiration. "I think I'd talk to him Sherlock. Find out just how attracted he was, if it meant anything to us, then I'd decide what to do next. What happened with this Samuel's woman?" He frowns and taps his glass with a fingertip.

"She and John... well, it was obvious there was some chemistry. I just felt, well, I felt... I don't know what I feel, felt but I don't like it." He sounds out of his depth and I've never heard it before.

"Did you talk to him or did you just sulk?" I ask, sipping my pint and looking at him. He sniffs, and twists his mouth.

"Yes I did. Talk to him." He adds.

"And..?" this is the worst questioning I've ever done. I sigh.

"He admitted it. Said he loved me. Agreed to let me try the paddle." I shake my head, _this _is the problem?

"So, what's the problem?" I shake my head again.

"I don't know." He drinks more of the pint. Purses his mouth. "I think it's... shaken me." I look at him aghast. Shaken? Sherlock?

"What do you mean? That he's found someone else attractive? Or that it bothered you?"

"The latter. I just hadn't imagined that it would make me feel like this." He looks at me again. It's a blank, cold look but I know him better than that, it's the face he wears when he doesn't know what else to do.

"How do you feel?" It's question I never thought I'd ask him.

"Like a huge black cloud has overshadowed the sun." He blinks. "I'm not used to similes, Geoff. But that's how it feels." I smile at the image of Sherlock being forced to figurative language.

"It's ok. That's normal," he frowns. "I mean, you're bound to feel like that. Your relationship with John has some basis in sexual attraction, that's what it's supposed to be like when you're in love with someone. A threat to that bond is bound to throw you off balance. But he said he loves you, Jesus, he's going to let you paddle his arse Holmes! What more do you want to convince you that his attraction's still firmly on you?" I chuckle. He grins and touches my shoulder briefly with his hand, it's the most affectionate thing he's ever done.

"Thank you. Really. Better get back before he changes his mind." He grins.

When we get back to the table the rest of them are laughing. John looks more relaxed, less tense. When he sees Sherlock he grins broadly, the warmth of his smile clearly evidences how he feels about the lanky detective.

John stands up and puts down his drink.

"Come on Sherlock. Let's go before I chicken out." He laughs and Laura, Art and Rose giggle. Sherlock holds out his hand, John takes it and they leave, beaming.

Dr John Watson's POV

He stands behind me in the lift, his long arms wrapped around me. He kisses my neck and his fingers play down by my chest, over the thin knit of my jumper. My heart is thumping in my chest and the familiar electricity is running down my body. His lips are at my ear.

"I want you hard John. Really hard and wanting me inside you." Oh god. I whimper and I feel him smile against my neck as he carries on the kissing. His hands run down my chest and skim over my crotch. I am hard already. Painfully hard. He chuckles. "Stage one accomplished." I laugh and catch my breath as his sharp teeth nip my collar bone, his hands leaving my aching flesh to pull aside the neck of my jumper.

We get into the room and he pushes me back against the wall. He grabs my hands, pulls them up over my head so that I am stretched out, my back against the cold plaster. One of his long fingered hands easily holds my wrists and, though I could get away if I wanted to, I don't want to escape his clutches.

The other hand runs down my cheek, down the front of my jumper, pinches my slightly numb nipple sharply. The sting picks me up onto my toes, makes me open my mouth and gasp. He smiles, the lights are still off and his teeth gleam in the gloom. It's deliciously menacing. He pulls my jumper up over my head, releasing my hands briefly to tug it over my head. Then his hands go back to their previous torment. I twist, not to escape the maddening pinching but to try to release some of the desire thrumming through me. His hands move lower, teasing past my cock and gripping my thigh.

"Stay there John. Don't move." I nod. He moves across the room and I lower my hands because the muscles in my arms are starting to ache. He rummages in his suitcase and comes back with the paddle. My mouth goes dry; I can feel my pulse in my erection, throbbing through my trousers.

He comes back, puts the paddle on the side table and tuts as he looks at my hands hanging by my sides. I realise my mistake and put my hands above my head. The posture of surrender is obvious. He grins wickedly. His hands shoot out; one grips my hands and yanks them higher than before. It takes my breath away, the strength of his grip and the uncomfortable position. The other hand firmly holds my erection, he squeezes and I moan.

"Oh god." He puts his face right up to mine.

"Yes?" He whispers and flexes the hand on my cock. The pleasurable feeling of his hand on my tender skin is like a fire licking through me, over me. He rubs with his hand. I groan louder. He takes his hands away. The removal of his hands, holding me up and enticing me, makes me pant, bend double and catch my breath.

"Knees." I drop down and look up at him. He is grinning. He unfastens his trousers with one hand. I don't need to be told what to do next. I lift my hands and pull his trousers away, pulling down his shorts and exposing his erection. The smooth skin gleams like silk in the low light. I know how he will taste, how he will feel in my throat.

I put my mouth on the tip of him and lick him gently. He growls and puts his hands on the wall behind me, leaning into my mouth. I take the head of his cock and swirl my tongue over him. His hand comes down, cups my chin and he thrusts forward. I gag and he stops, letting me adjust to the width, the length of him. I hear him breathing above me, ragged and sharp. I hold my head still and let him do what he wants with me. He fucks my mouth hard. My teeth scrape over him and he growls again. For a moment I wonder if he wants to come, or if he is saving himself for later but then he grabs my hair and pushes me down on him and there's no mistaking his plans.

I open my throat wider, titling my head so that I can take all of him and am rewarded by a deep groan, that velvet voice sounding desperate and hungry. It just makes me harder to hear what my mouth is doing to him. He is thrusting now, no regard for how he is making me feel. This is about his pleasure and I accept and relish that feeling of being used by this amazing man, that he wants to use me.

When he comes he holds my face down on him, forcing me to swallow as he pushes his last thrusts into my mouth. For a while he is still, panting, shaking. Then he steps away from the wall. Fastens his trousers, straightens his jacket, his shirt.

"Stand up." His voice sounds different, raw and unrefined. When I look at him his face is flushed in the dim light, his chest moving with the effort of his breathing.

"Take off your trousers. And the shorts."

I obey, fumbling with trembling fingers at my buttons and kicking off my shoes eagerly. He stands back, arms folded watching me intently. When I am naked, my hard cock vulnerable and obvious, he looks me slowly up and down and smiles his shark smile. It makes my knees weak. He takes off his jacket, unfastens his top buttons on his shirt and picks up the paddle. He blinks slowly.

He steps close to me, grips my wrists in his hand and pulls my body taut. I am suddenly aware of how open and defenceless I am to whatever he wants to do. Instead of fear a thrill of lust overtakes me. I am shaking. He runs the smooth velvet of the paddle over my thighs. The fabric is soft and I wonder what it will feel like on the soft skin of my erection. He stops before he gets there. I moan again.

"Turn around." His hands twist me around and I am facing the wall, bare arse exposed to him. He runs the paddle down over my shoulders. The broad, rasping tongue chafes my skin, leaving a wide stroke of faint burning down my back. He presses my hands to the wall.

"Leave them there." He commands, his voice dark, seductive. I place my palms flat against the plaster of the wall. His hand comes down over my hard nipples, sweeping down to fist my cock. I gasp, twist, thrust. He chuckles.

"Ready John?" he whispers in my ear, his body warm against mine as he presses against me. I nod, whimper.

He brings down the paddle and I tense up. Whether it's my hard muscles or the bluntness of the instrument I don't know but there is a dull thud and I painful smack on my left buttock. I don't enjoy it, there isn't the sting of the crop and there is no intensity, no high this time. Maybe the next blow will be better. His hand comes back and thwack, the same slapping pain, the same flat, dull feeling. Three more strikes and I can feel my erection waning. This is doing nothing for me. It just hurts in an awful, toothache kind of way. There's no finesse, no menace. I don't like it.

He's still swinging and I am just standing there, cold now and bloody miserable. I'm surprised he hasn't noticed something is wrong but maybe he's in the zone. I am firmly out of any zones at all. I can feel my cock flaccid against my thigh, all the excitement, the energy is gone. What the fuck do I do now?

If I tell him I don't like it is he going to feel disappointed? Angry with me? Don't be stupid John; I tell myself, this is Sherlock. He'll be concerned; this is supposed to be fun. The paddle comes down again and I try hard to concentrate. The burning, the throb is entirely different than the sensation with the crop and it just isn't working for me. I twist my mouth and frown, trying to make it feel good, trying to will that stinging pleasure to my cock but it's no good. I am annoyed with myself. I'm no good at this, maybe I am vanilla after all. Maybe Sherlock will get bored with me now? Find someone else to play with, someone who is more fun and likes the paddle.

Now this is just fucking stupid Watson. I scold myself. Say the fucking word and get it over with. I open my mouth, scrunch up my eyes and say it.

"Cactus." My voice sounds hoarse and thin. Instantly Sherlock stops, I hear the paddle fall to the floor. He steps to me, puts his arms about me, kisses me. He looks over my shoulder, down at my body.

"Oh dear." He whispers. "Not good?" His voice is filled with concern for me, how could I have thought he'd be angry? I lean my body back into his embrace.

"Bit not good, yeah." I say and squint my eyes. I think I might cry. My throat's gone tight and my nose prickles with the herald of coming tears. I feel raw and emotional.

He leaves me for a moment and I panic, my legs start to shake and the tears fall without my volition. Then he's back with a blanket and a glass of something which he presses into my hand while he wraps the thick soft material around me.

"Come to the bed, come on, it's alright." His voice is gentle and he leads me by the hand to the bed. He sits down and pulls me sideways between his legs, wraps his arms about me, puts my head against his chest with his hands.

I sit there for a moment, gathering myself together, listening to his heart.

"Did I hurt you?" He asks nervously. I hadn't considered this, that he might be worried about hurting me. I add guilt to the pile of emotions thumping in my head. I sip the drink, brandy.

"Yes, but that was the point." I shake my head as he takes a breath to speak. "No, it's not that Sherlock. It was, well... just the wrong sort of hurt. I think the crop would be ok but the paddle was too..." I stop and fumble in my brain for the word. "Too blunt, too obvious, it wasn't sharp and edgy like the crop." I feel him nod.

"I understand. And that's the point of the safe word. I'm glad you used it. That's good." I look up at him. He's looking at me, his face half fallen over his eyes, his mouth the only clear feature. It is smiling slightly.

"Good? You're not angry with me? Disappointed?" I sound small, even to myself. I feel small, I feel like a little kid.

"Not at all, I'm more angry with myself. And disappointed too." The pointed lips grin suddenly, it warms me. "I should have thought about it more, maybe started with the crop." He shakes his head.

I sigh and lean my face back against him. He strokes my hair and we sit like this for a while, I am quietly enjoying the nearness of him. One hand holds mine in my lap and his other strokes down my back and his warm palm smoothes over my spine. He lets it rest just above my buttocks, the warmth spreads though me. I don't know why but the heat of his hand is making me think of what it would be like on my cock. I feel myself hardening, Jesus; could my body be more inappropriate? I have no idea what Sherlock is going to think about this after the song and dance I just made.

He shifts his hand in my lap, lacing his fingers a new way with mine, flexing them as he moves. His fingertips brush my erection and I hear him stop breathing for an instant. I listen to his heart begin to thud faster in his chest and for a moment I am enrapt in listening to the reaction of his body to my own arousal.

His hand comes back and touches me more deliberately, the fingers wrapping over the length of me, pulling gently, I gasp, moan, stretch my legs out and lean back into his other arm, giving him access to my body.

He works magic with that hand and, when I am moaning his name, thrusting into his grasp, he moves from behind me and down the bed until his mouth is over the wet tip of my erection.

His eyes never leave mine as he dips his head and takes me in his mouth. My hands are in his hair and he sucks me hard, his cheeks hollow and his eyes seem to darken as his pupils dilate. I buck and growl, his clever, velvet tongue flicks over me and I yelp, arching up from the bed. His hands hold my hips and his mouth works me mercilessly. I have no control anymore all I am is those few inches of desire, of want and need. He plays me like the violin, eliciting some kind of searing notes from my body. I come hard, whispering his name fiercely, offering him all of me, if he wants it.

When my breathing is more regular, the trembling of my legs subsides he pulls the blanket over us both and kisses me. His mouth is warm and tastes of me. He pulls back and looks me in the eye.

"Don't worry; we'll stick to the crop from now on. Deal?" his eyes crinkle as he grins wickedly. I smile a tired smile.

"Deal."

**Now, I am going to be VERY interested by what everyone thinks about this chapter so please don't hesitate in letting me know. It's a bit nerve wracking writing and publishing something like this as some of you will know. But I am intent on making this as real as I can. And not everyone likes everything. **

**Here's the link to the Sherlock fan meet info. It'd be great to see you there!**

ht tp:/commu /s herlockbbc/t ag/fan%20meets:%2 0london%20n ov%202 010

**Hey Baker Street Irregulars, I love it when I get your insightful, witty and kind review s and messages. You really make this writing experience so much better. PrincessNala Peachsilk (thanks for encouraging me to be brave with this.) Darmed (hoping that you're just getting better and better babes! Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal, Dead Air Space and Sapphykins! Cheers for being on this journey with me and the boys!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**

**Hey Baker Street Irregulars, I love it when I get your insightful, witty and kind review s and messages. You really make this writing experience so much better. PrincessNala (tell those workmen o stop Fing with your connection!)and Peachsilk (excited!) Darmed (hoping that you're just getting better and better babes! Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (hope the thesis and the musical are going well!) thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal and Dead Air Space! Cheers for being on this journey with me and the boys!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**

**To the wonderful and glamouroaus Baker Street Irregulars, I have to say thanks for sticking with me thought this crazy time of busy!. I love reading what you are thinking as we go along. It really feels liek these stories are OURS. PrincessNala (tell those workmen o stop Fing with your connection!)and Peachsilk (excited!) Darmed (hoping that you're just getting better and better babes! Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (hope the thesis and the musical are going well!) thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal, Dead Air Space ans Sapphykins! Cheers for being on this journey with me and the boys!**

**Love you OHOB and Reggie Cx**


	9. Phillip Bannister

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

It's about nine thirty when Sherlock bangs on the door of our hotel room. I drag my dressing gown on and leave Art in bed flicking the channels on the TV and answer the insistent knocking.

"Good." He says when I open the door and he's glanced behind me into the room. "You're not busy. Art!" He calls over my shoulder.

"Yes? Oh hi, Sherlock!" Art waves. Sherlock waves back. I shake my head.

"Art? Can you go and talk to John? I've got to go out. Lestrade, busy?" I shake my head. "Want to come with me? I could use a fresh pair of eyes." Wow. This is a big admittance from Sherlock Holmes. I don't know if it's flattery or curiosity which makes me agree to go with him.

"Give me a minute to get dressed." He nods and I let him into the room. He turns his back while I pull on a pair of trousers and a shirt. He's very quiet and I look over to see what has him so preoccupied. We've left the paddle and the tape out on the table and he's just staring at them. If it was anyone else I might be rushing to move them, or explain their presence, but we're beyond that with Sherlock.

Art's dressed and looks amazing, as always.

"I should put these away." He grins at Sherlock and takes toys from the table. "How did your evening go?" He bats the paddle around like a Japanese ping pong player, bouncing on his toes, laughing. He sobers when he sees Sherlock's face and I pause while tying my laces. Sherlock is biting his lip, brows knotted.

"Speak to John, Art. It's all alright now but I think he needs to talk to someone other than me about it." Art nods.

"Right, I'll go now." He pauses, realising something in the situation which I have missed. "Should I take Rose?" Sherlock smiles slightly and nods. Art runs off, kissing me and grabbing my arse before he goes. I grin.

"Where are we going?" I ask Sherlock as I chase him down a corridor, his long legs setting off at full tilt. He glances over his shoulder.

"Phillip Banister." He waves a slip of paper. "He's a solicitor. I know how you love a solicitor!" he grins. I shake my head and hurry after him.

Dr John Watson's POV

When Sherlock's gone and breakfast arrives I sit and look at all the toast, the sausages, bacon and eggs, the massive pot of coffee and wonder how I will manage to eat this. Two minutes later there's a knock at the door.

I expect it to be Sherlock. I want it to be him; I'm still not comfortable with the distance between us after last night. It's not that there's an emotional distance, not at all, in fact he's been more careful, more attentive to me that he's ever been before. The massive breakfast he's ordered is a testament to that. He seems to have this idea that toast equals love. He's odd like that. But the physical distance now he's gone makes me feel nervous, small.

It's Art at the door. He's holding Rose's hand and they're standing there smiling like the BDSM rescue version of Hansel and Gretel.

"Hello sweetie!" Art sweeps into the room and descends on the bed, helping himself to breakfast.

"Morning darling." Rose kisses me on the cheek and then makes her way to the food.

"Sherlock sent us," Art explains as he fills his mouth with bacon and pours the coffee. "We're 'sub rescue'." He salutes and giggles. I laugh too; you have to laugh around him.

"What happened with the paddle?" Rose asks gently, taking the coffee from Art and passing one to me. I sigh; rub my hand across my face. Once upon a time I would have been very uncomfortable with this conversation, now I'm just glad to be talking to people who know about this stuff and who are friends.

"I didn't enjoy it at all." I say this quietly, both of them just nod, like it's something they expected. For some reason this gives me confidence. I think I was expecting them to think I was crazy.

"What did you do about that John?" Rose says, chewing her toast thoughtfully. Art cocks his head to one side.

"I used the safe word." Art and Rose exchange glances and then spontaneously give me a round of applause. I laugh.

"Good boy." Art grins. "That's brilliant."

"I'm proud of you." Rose says and touches my hand. It sounds cheesy but it makes me smile. "What made it feel wrong?" I look out of the window, trying to think how to describe how the paddle felt.

"It was too... blunt, too dull; I think is the best way to describe it." Rose nods and Art looks at me thoughtfully.

"What did you start with?" he asks.

"Just the paddle, oh, what? You mean really start with? First spanking toy ever? The crop." I tell him, his eyes go wide.

"Sherlock just went straight for the paddle even when he knew you liked the crop?" he asks.

"And you used the crop first, ever?" says Rose in that same voice. I nod. They both make noises which sound like they're impressed and surprised.

"Why? Is that wrong?" I ask, puzzled by the reaction my comment has received. Art shakes his head.

"No, no. Typical of Sherlock to be so confident you'd enjoy what he did with the crop and start with that." He grins and Rose laughs.

"But usually a Dom would start with the broader, less specific toy and then go for the more precise crop." Says Rose, "wouldn't you say Art?" He nods and butters more toast.

"Yep. I'd say. And then to start with the paddle when you'd liked the crop is a bit...odd." He says twisting his mouth.

"Well, I think that was me." I say guiltily. Art raises an eyebrow and Rose looks at me over her coffee cup. "I... said to Sherlock that was what I wanted." Rose nods and Art bites his toast.

"But you didn't know whether you'd enjoy it or not." Says Rose. "Sherlock should have known that."

"All Doms get carried away at some point though eh?" Art says this to Rose who smiles and giggles.

"Laura does have a tendency to think she can make anything fun if she tries hard enough. Clothes pegs with no warm up! Ouch!" Art winces in sympathy and they laugh. Clothes pegs? The thought makes me more excited than I want to admit.

"So, what are you going to do now about the paddle?" asks Art.

"Leave it alone or give it another go?" adds Rose. I shrug.

"What's this? Sub revolution?" Laura strides into the room waving a key card. "Good job Sherlock dropped this off with me before he left! What's going on kids?" She adopts a fakey 'grown up' voice as she plonks herself down on the bed and leans over, biting Rose's toast in half cheekily. Rose looks at me and I nod.

"Sherlock paddled John; John didn't like it, John safeworded." Laura nods and then holds up her hand.

"High five! Good boy!" She slaps my hand heartily and then pats me on the head, very Lola.

"Everyone seems so happy that I used the safe word. I thought I was wimping out." I say and judging from their reactions I couldn't be more wrong. Art and Rose shake their heads.

"Every good Dom wants to know that the sub will safe word when they need to." She says seriously. "You've not thought this out have you?" I shake my head frowning.

"Well, if I've got it right, you like to switch John?" I nod, her train of thought becoming clearer. "So if you were paddling Sherlock..." I feel myself blush, feel the reaction that this thought has upon me and she grins.

"If he hated it I'd want him to tell me," I say, and then, because I can't help it, I add. "Does Sherlock like being paddled?" Art looks at Rose and Laura and I realise these two will know the answer to this question. Laura grins.

"Hell yes. Yes, I can safely say that Sherlock Holmes likes the paddle. Go John! Give him some of his own medicine." I laugh but the idea is seriously interesting. The phone rings.

"Hello? John Watson?" I answer.

"Can I speak to Sherlock Holmes please?" it's a woman's voice, she sounds young.

"Sorry, he isn't here. Can I take a message? Who's speaking?" Rose, Art and Laura are all looking at me. I gesture for some paper, a pen.

"Thanks. Will you tell him Angela Charles called? Tell him there's only one retailer who can supply the particular ingredient he's looking for. Have you got a pen? Good. It's 'Curnow and Sons, Portobello Rd, London. I don't have a phone number for them, sorry. Thanks then, bye." I say goodbye and she hangs up.

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

"So, tell me about this bloke." I say to Sherlock as we sit in the cab. Sherlock looks up from where he has been sitting, chin on his chest, eyes closed since we got in the taxi. He seems preoccupied, like he's thinking about something else.

"Went to university with the rest of them. Only straight man in Sebastian's circle of friends. Is dealing with the will. I don't know much else but that's why we're going to see him." The head goes back down, those pale eyes close again. I look out of the window.

"Have fun with the paddle?" I ask, deliberately provocative, I know something went wrong. He doesn't open his eyes but he does shake his head.

"Oh?" I let the syllable hang until he answers, shifting in his seat, pulling his coat about him more tightly.

"John doesn't like it." He opens one eye. I raise my eyebrows, bloody hell.

"What did you do?" he opens the other eye and glares. I hold my hands up. "Hey! It's just research, for if I'm ever in that situation!" I defend my nosiness. He grins.

"We stopped. Did something else." I nod.

"So, is it off the menu forever then?" I ask, knowing I'm pushing it. He looks out of the window and then back to me.

"Not necessarily." Fuck this; I hate these bloody cryptic conversations.

"I'm not asking because I get some vicarious thrill out of imagining you paddling John's arse!" I say in an exasperated tone, throwing up my hands. He looks at me levelly. "I'm not! I'm just new at all this." I add and he looks at me as though the thought had not occurred to him.

"Well, something a sub doesn't like can be used as a thing to get through so that they get the thing they do like." He says simply, steepling his fingers. I think about this.

"What? Like five goes with the paddle and then, if you're good, I'll use the... flogger?" I conjure a word I've seen in one of the books Laura lent to me. He looks surprised but then nods. I grin. "Sounds like a great idea!" I say enthusiastically, he laughs.

"Art's going to love you!" he chuckles.

"Going to? I think he already does mate." I say sniggering and then we both sober up because we remember that Art is in serious trouble if we can't work something out.

We're meeting Bannister at his office. It's a red stone affair, very plush and distinguished looking, typically Edinburgh. The old three storey house is home to two businesses one of which is Bannister's office which takes up two floors. The other office is the top floor, some kind of medical suppliers from the sleek silver and blue nameplate on the door. I don't get time to read the plaque before Sherlock sweeps us into the hallway.

It's one of those places which haven't been changed by the corporate image of the businesses it holds. A long dark wood table bears an expensive looking vase with an even more expensive spray of flowers bursting from the rim and it could be someone's home. A secretary, tall blonde, attractive in a Scandinavian kind of way, stops as she takes a tray of coffee upstairs.

"Mr. Holmes? Mr Lestrade?" I look at Sherlock, she obviously doesn't know I'm on the force and I presume he hasn't told them. He slides his eyes to me and inclines his head slightly; I nod my acknowledgement of his omission. Then Sherlock slips into the persona he's chosen for this interview.

"Hi, hi. Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes. We have an appointment with Mr. Bannister?" The secretary looks into the suddenly warm, open face of my companion and smiles broadly.

"Of course, yes. This is your coffee! Follow me." Sherlock nods, still smiling. We follow her legs; the thin line down the back of her stocking is so precise I wonder if it's drawn onto her calves.

Phillip Bannister is a young man though this is masked by his corpulence and his thinning sandy hair. He's behind his desk and he rises only vaguely to greet us because he's still on the phone.

"I know, I will. Yes, yes." He rolls his eyes at us, gestures for us to sit and the secretary to put down the coffee. It's a complicated piece of communication without words but he manages to convey an air of exasperation with the caller on the phone and how happy he is to see us. "Ok. Well he's here now. What? Oh. Right, yes of course. Yes. Bye." He puts down the receiver and shakes Sherlock's hand.

"Sorry chaps, Jennifer there. Jennifer Samuels? You've met I understand?" He raises an eyebrow in male camaraderie and obviously expects us to agree with his assessment of womankind. Sherlock chuckles slightly and I frown. I am not a good actor. Never have been. He shakes my hand now. His grasp is a chubby and damp, unpleasant.

"Dr Watson?" he asks, and I shake my head, his turn to frown. "Oh?" He looks at Sherlock.

"My partner's busy this morning. I'm sure you understand that, with a case like this, there's a lot to be looked into." I sit down next to Sherlock in the large chesterfield armchair and settle in to watch the interaction between the two of them.

Sherlock explains how he's been hired by Art to look into the allegations which seem sure to be raised against him. He mentions the school he and Art attended and Bannister makes some comment about how they might have played each other at rugby. Old school ties established, he names a number of cases on which we've worked together, all high profile and designed to impress Bannister. The monopoly murders, the business with the nuns and the cars and the memorable case involving the Prime Minister's nanny. I can see the ruse works. Bannister sits up a little in his chair, his attitude becomes more friendly.

It never ceases to amaze me how smoothly Sherlock can slide into a new persona. How the icy, almost rude, exterior can melt and adapt into a new, entirely different, character. It reminds me of watching my mother melt chocolate in a pan. The sharp corners, the matt, unreflective surface becoming seductive, shiny, iridescent and malleable. Currently he's Mr. Charm.

"Gosh! You were in that business with Cameron's nanny? That must have been awfully exciting!" gushes Bannister, Sherlock nods and pulls a face which implies that he could tell some tales about that particular case. I notice he hasn't introduced me at all. I am the observer. So I observe.

"So, how can I help you Mr. Holmes?" Bannister's almost forgotten I am here and this is obviously Sherlock's plan.

"Sherlock, please call me Sherlock." He smiles and gestures to a small dish containing a few mints on the desk. "May I?" Bannister waves expansively.

"So, how can I help Sherlock? Dreadful business with old Seb. Mind you, he was in rather a bad way when I saw him last week..." He trials off uncertain whether he should continue.

"Really? He was in Edinburgh? What sort of bad way?" Sherlock pops three mints into his mouth and smiles sympathetically. At this rate he'll have finished the dish in a few minutes.

"Nervous, jittery. Kept going on about never being free, never getting away. I was quite concerned. I told Jennifer..." Sherlock pops another mint.

"You did? How did she react? These mints are delicious..." He pulls a face as he notices that there is only one left. Bannister glances at the dish.

"I left a message on her answer phone... yes, they are, aren't they? I have them flown in you know, you can only get them in Germany. Its ridiculous isn't it? Everyone loves them. I get them for birthday presents, Christmas presents. I imagine it's my thing now, my signature gift I suppose you'd call it. One day my nieces and nephews will be complaining that Uncle Phillip buys them sweeties for Christmas, but I rather like it. Makes one stand out from those game stations and the like." Sherlock smiles and eats the last mint.

"I've got a box downstairs. Hang on a mo and I'll get Freya to get it for you." He presses the discreet wooden intercom on the desk. Nothing happens. He pushes the button again. "Oh damn. Here, I'll just nip downstairs and get them myself. No, no, no problem," he says as Sherlock protests.

As soon as he's gone the mask slips from Sherlock's face. He's up looking at pictures, checking the drawers of the desk. I get up and move to a filing cabinet. I look over at him and he's plugging the intercom back in, he must have disconnected it with his foot when he sat down. Sly bugger.

"What am I looking for? You realise this is illegal?" I remark as he rifles through a sheaf of letters. He doesn't even look up at me.

"Anything. Look for something useful." He instructs, helpfully. I sigh and rummage in the drawer I have open.

It's mainly case files, some will documents. I see a name I recognise. I pluck it from the drawer, keeping my hand in the place it should be in the drawer.

"This for example?" He crosses the room in one stride. He scans the document; I can almost see the words being sucked into the photographic memory. It's frightening. He thrusts the will back into the cabinet, slides the door shut soundlessly and pushes me back to the chair. I can't hear a thing but a second later Bannister comes back. He presents Sherlock with a box. It's wooden tied with a green bow.

"Last box of the last consignment, I'll have to order some more. Jennifer and Tamsyn took most of my last boxes when they came over at Christmas. Women and sweet things, you know how it is!" He chuckles indulgently and Sherlock joins him with a remarkably similar laugh. "Now, is there anything I can do to help?" He asks again, peering at Sherlock.

"Have you anything to do with Sebastian's will?" Sherlock asks, looking at the box of mints, sounding quite disinterested. Bannister nods.

"Yes, I helped him draw it up. In fact I have with most of the old gang. I'll be doing the reading once all the dreadful business with the police is out of the way." He wrinkles his nose with distaste.

"Do you think he killed himself?" Sherlock asks only glancing at Bannister, still seemingly preoccupied with the box of mints. Bannister blinks, sighs.

"I'm afraid he might have you know. He was awfully on edge when I saw him last. I assume he was just heartbroken after what happened with your client... he was coming back to see me you know, it was supposed to be yesterday. It was a dreadful moment when I read his appointment in my diary." He looks sad now; somehow the emotion looks wrong on his face.

"What happened with our client?" I can't help myself, the words stab out, all razor edged and pointed. Bannister looks at me like he hasn't even seen me until now.

"Well," he begins, doing that blinking thing again. I can see he's uncomfortable with Sebastian's sexuality, the whole subject. "I believe he was informed that Lord Douglas had a new, friend." He says delicately. I feel my lips fall into a thin line.

"How did he find out?" I ask coldly.

"Erm. I don't actually know. I just know I got a call from him, late one night. It turns out he'd phoned all the others but had not got the response he wanted. So he called me."

"What response did he want? What did you say?" Sherlock almost steps in front of me, taking me out of the conversation.

"Oh, I think he wanted to hear that this new thing wouldn't last, that Lord Douglas would come running back, that sort of thing..." He twists his mouth sideways, his attitude to gay men and to women seems to be of a similar nature. " I think the others had told him to get over it. I just listened. There wasn't much else I could do really." He shrugs and smiles sadly. Sherlock nods and touches his arm.

"Thanks Philip, you've been a great help. And thanks for these," he lifts the box and rattles it. Bannister claps Sherlock's arm and gives me a weak smile.

In the cab back to the hotel Sherlock is smiling to himself out of the window.

"What?" I ask him, annoyed at being kept in the dark again. "Was that any use at all?" He turns to me, still smiling.

"Of course. Enormously useful. A few more things to tidy up and I shall have it all." He says in a confident way. I am stunned.

"What? Really? A few more things? But you've interviewed three people and none of them said anything useful!" Sherlock sighs. His expression is pitying.

"Geoff, I may have exaggerated a little when I said a few more things, but on the whole, yes, I think I have things in place." He leans forward, excited, eyes alight. "I just need the evidence now! The evidence!"

**It's been killing me not to get all this written down! Thank goodness I had some time tonight. As per usual I would much appreciate your thoughts, comments and ideas on this chapter. It really does help me become a better writer.**

**And to my wonderful Baker Street Irregulars, it'd be great if some of us can get together with Verityburns in London on the 27****th****. If you're interested in coming please check the LiveJournal Sherlock Community or send me a PM. PrincessNala (hope the workmen go soon)and Peachsilk (thanks for just being an ace mate and writing buddy) Darmed (haven't heard from you for a while and I hope you're doing well darling) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (you've got lots to catch up on, hope you enjoy it!) thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal, Dead Air Space and Sapphykins! Thanks for your help, support and general all round loveliness!**

**Reggie, thanks for making my tea, painting the house and doing my nails! OHOB, thanks for being there dude. **


	10. Lunch Interrupted

Dr John Watson's POV

By the time Sherlock and Lestrade get back I am determined to try the paddle out myself. Maybe once I've had a swing of it I will work out how to make the damned thing sexy. I bloody hope so anyway.

We're in the restaurant having lunch when Art spies them through the enormous windows out of the restaurant; they are striding across the foyer. He waves and Lestrade spots him and catches hold of Sherlock's arm and points. Sherlock smiles briefly and veers his course to meet us.

"John," his voice is dark and he clasps my shoulder briefly before sitting next to me and picking at the toast and pate on my plate. He looks at me searchingly, checking my mood, how I am now I've had the meeting with the 'sub club'. I smile and pass him a menu.

"Hi, do you want to order?" he takes the long wooden folder and I remember the message I have to give to him. "You had a phone call." He raises an eyebrow but doesn't stop reading the menu.

"Angela Charles?" he asks, I nod.

"She says 'Curnow and Sons, Portobello Rd'. Do you know what that means?" He nods again but he doesn't say anything. Lestrade sits down opposite me and kisses Art on the cheek.

"All right darlin'?" He says in a mockney accent. Art grins.

"Well, what did you find out? Have you got any more ideas?" This is Laura, leaning forward in her chair, trying to catch Sherlock's eye as he scans the menu. Rose purses her lips and puts her hand on Laura's arm.

Sherlock looks up and throws the menu down on the tablecloth, Lestrade rescues it and begins to read. His avid study of the food on offer tells me this is not a good question to be asking. Sherlock's eyes narrow and fix on Laura and even she shrinks back a little.

"Laura, I understand that you are concerned for Art's wellbeing, as am I. But I cannot be expected to work under the current conditions. It's how I imagine pregnant women must feel!" He gets up at this alarming comment, his chair tips back on the floor and other diners look up at us. "All the poking and prodding and asking how I am, where I'm up to? How long will it be now? Argh!" He throws up his hands and madly ruffles his hair. Then he stops, takes a deep breath and sits back down. He smiles, Laura looks at him warily.

"Allow me some gestation time please." He says evenly. Laura nods quickly. "How did this morning's talks go?" He turns to me, that pale blue laser pins me to the spot, I feel my heart begin to race. It's astonishing what that level of intensity can do. I nod, realise this is not actually an answer, and try to gather some words together while that stare holds me in its beam.

"Good, er, good. I've erm... got some ideas now. And er, yeah. Good." Hopeless, bloody hopeless. Sherlock's eyebrows rise.

"Ideas? Interesting. I have the rest of the afternoon off. I want to interview Tamsyn Barker but she's not in Edinburgh 'til later so," he pauses and grins a shark grin. "maybe if you want to try those ideas out..." He lets his voice trail off and reaches for my glass of wine, downs the liquid, places it back on the table fastidiously. I swallow. Laura laughs.

"Yes, that might be a good idea, you know, try your ideas out." I look at Rose because there's something odd, forced about how she says this. Then I feel a sharp kick on my ankle. I look at her. She is staring at me, head on one side, obviously trying to communicate something to me. What? Oh! Ideas! Like the idea of using the paddle on Sherlock. Right. I grin and turn back to Sherlock who is watching this exchange with an amused smirk.

"Yes. Let's do that." I say decisively. He nods once and gestures to the waitress.

"Let me eat first. I want to have my wits about me." He smiles. I am about to say that I can't imagine him without his wits but then something happens.

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

I've just decided what I want for lunch; secretly got hold of Art's hand under the table when the policeman arrives and sat back to watch Sherlock reduce John to a puddle of goo with that look.

McKay looks grumpy and tired. I know that look because it's the one that greets me in the mirror by the end of the week. As this is not the end of the week I assume the case is not going well for him.

"Lord Arthur, I'm afraid I've got to ask you some more questions..." his voice fades away as he catches a glimpse of Sherlock and his expression goes from grumpy to granite in sixty seconds. Oh dear. "You." He points a chubby, accusatory finger at Sherlock who looks at the finger pointedly as though he is studying the detective's nails.

"Me," agrees Sherlock nodding as though this is a perfectly reasonable statement.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Spits McKay through clenched teeth and is rewarded by a beaming, if unnerving, smile from Sherlock.

"See!" Sherlock turns to John triumphantly. "I told you he'd find out who I was!" John cringes and rubs his face with his hand.

"Oh yes, Sherlock Holmes the interferer." McKay's finger stabs out again. "Holmes the meddler! Holmes the pet of Scotland Yard! Well, you're not in London now Mr. Holmes and I'll have none of you poking your nose into my case." Sherlock stands up, it's times like this when you realise just how tall he really is, he towers over McKay. To give the smaller man credit, he doesn't seem intimidated.

No one speaks and for a moment I think back to my first cases with Sherlock, when I thought he was an irritating, upper class fuckwit who should run off to mummy and daddy and the big country estate where he no doubt was brought up and leave the real detectives to do their job. This was before I realised he was brilliant. And that he might just be the best detective I had ever met or heard about. Even back then he made Miss Marple, Inspector Morse and Columbo look like idiot amateurs.

The Mexican standoff is still in full flow. Sherlock's looking down his pointed nose, one lip slightly curled with disdain and McKay is staring back at him belligerently like a ginger bulldog. This isn't good. There isn't even any point in me saying anything, McKay's not going to take kindly to another officer messing about in his case, I wouldn't. So I just sit there. Luckily Art has a brain.

"Of course Inspector. Where would you like to talk? Here is fine with me." He indicates the table with a gracious wave of his hand. McKay is reluctant to lose the staring match he's having with Sherlock and we'll be here all night if we wait for one of these egos to back down. I kick Sherlock's shin, hard.

"Ow!" He glares at me angrily, realises my ruse and scowls as John pulls him back into his seat. Laura gets a chair for the Inspector and we all try to find something else to talk about but we're all listening to the conversation.

"I have to tell you Lord Arthur that the investigation is not looking good for you. Ordinarily I wouldn't be telling a suspect this but..." he shrugs and shakes his head, clearly annoyed, "well, your father has been in touch with my Super and, well, I was told to speak to you." Arthur grimaces at the mention of his dad.

"I'm sorry about that Inspector." Art's tone is serious, courteous. "I'm afraid my father has always been a little, overbearing and I really would rather he was kept out of this." McKay nods with new respect.

"Well, your dad seems to be friends with some people who... well; they have a lot of clout anyway." He ends the sentence and sighs.

"Have you got any other suspects?" Sherlock interrupts the calm, polite conversation by banging his fork on his glass like he's at a wedding. Everyone looks at him.

"We've interviewed Sebastian Faulkes' friends and anyone who might have had a grudge against him. Unfortunately the only link with the type of poison found in his body and anyone we know is..."

"Tetrodotoxin." Sherlock's voice has a superior air which seems specifically designed in a lab to get up a policeman's nose. I sigh. "Puffer fish poison Art. And the only person in the proximity of Mr. Faulkes to have access to that poison is you." Sherlock points and McKay nods wearily. Art groans.

"That bloody recipe." I rub my face with my hands.

"But, surely there are lots of people cooking that stuff?" asks Laura in a demanding tone. We all look at her; she is frowning and tapping the table with one scarlet manicured nail. Sherlock, McKay and Art all shake their heads.

"No. There's only one legal stockist in the UK." Art says his voice small.

"Curnow and Sons." Sherlock says.

"And they've only sold to one customer in the last six weeks." McKay's voice is sombre. We all look at Art and he puts his head in his hands. I touch his shoulder but he doesn't respond. McKay looks uncomfortable.

"Right, well, I'd better go. I just had to keep you appraised of the situation." His accent seems stronger now. I look up at him and nod. He nods back thoughtfully and scrapes back his chair. Laura grabs his hand.

"Inspector, you have to know that Art didn't do this. I mean, look at him! He's not a killer!" she waves her hand impatiently toward Art's sad form. McKay regards her seriously.

"Miss, poison is the sort of crime anyone could commit. It isn't caving someone's head in with a spade or running them over. It's quiet, secretive. I'm sorry but I have to follow my line of enquiry no matter where that takes me." Sherlock is on his feet in an instant. He grabs McKay's hand and shakes it vigorously.

"You're right, you're quite right. Off you go! Investigate your line of enquiry!" He practically steers McKay to the door. The startled policeman glances back at us all but then shrugs and leaves.

"What aren't you telling us?" I ask Sherlock angrily, his bloody monekying about gets irritating at the best of times and this is not the best of times. Art's obvious distress sharpens my edge.

Sherlock looks at me, eyes wide, mouth pulled into a thin line, only the very points of his top lip really showing. It's an expression of disdain.

"For god's sake Lestrade be a policeman! Just stop using this," he pokes me hard in the chest, right over my heart. "And use this!" he stabs a finger in my temple. Ow, that fucking hurts. I look at him and he shakes his head.

"Think man! What do you know about poison? What's the first thing they..." he stops when he sees the penny dropping. "Yes! Thank you." He inclines his head acknowledging that I have caught up with his massive intellect.

"But? I can't see how that helps us..." I can feel the rest of the table staring at us as we talk in ciphers. I'd tell them all now, the most obvious thing about poison, but it's not how Sherlock works and I might have got it wrong, you never know.

"No, of course you can't. Because you aren't me!" He thumps the table with one fist and snaps his fingers of the other hand at John who produces the phone from his pocket like it's a rehearsed magician's trick. Sherlock's fingers play over the keys sending a text at lightening speed. He slides the phone back across the table. The waitress arrives with the food and I persuade Art to eat.

"Look, Sherlock knows what he's doing." I whisper, aware that everyone can hear us anyway. They pretend not to be listening. Art nods into his forearms; head still on the table, then lifts his face to me.

"I know. But...Father..." he sighs in a pained whisper. I put my arm around him and nod.

"Look, I've not met your dad but I'm not going to let anyone..." my sentence trails off and I squeeze his shoulders. Art smiles wanly and it breaks my heart.

Dr John Watson's POV

I have no idea what Sherlock and Lestrade are on about. I just know that one of them, or both of them, need to sort this awful business out before it gets worse for Art. He'd never survive prison. The thought makes me shiver. Rose puts her hand over mine and smiles at me. I try to smile back. Everyone eats in silence.

We're finishing our meals, Sherlock drinking wine from my glass because he can't be bothered to ask the waitress for another one, when there is a commotion at the door. I look up to see a tall, broad shouldered woman crossing the floor towards us.

Her square face holds an expression of intent determination and the 'horse and country' look of her brown trousers, black leather boots and tweed jacket is enhanced by her short cropped blonde hair. She isn't very old, probably about Art's age, but her confident stride and the way she is tapping her leg with a newspaper gives her the air of someone much older. Sherlock gets out of his chair and holds his hand towards her smiling disarmingly.

"Ms Barker?" he says taking her hand and shaking it firmly. I watch her expression change, mutinously frowning brows shooting up into her hairline as Sherlock counteracts her attack with his prior knowledge. I smile to myself. Welcome to Holmesville, Tamsyn.

"Sherlock Holmes?" her voice is clipped, public school. "Good. I wanted to speak to you about this business with Sebastian. I presume you'd be coming to speak to me next, as you've interviewed the rest of the gang." Her mouth puckers with disapproval. Sherlock's smile gets wider but she isn't cracking.

"So," she pulls up a seat and I almost expect her to sit on it backwards, like a cowboy or someone in an American cop show. She doesn't, she does, however, cross her legs in a business like fashion. Sherlock's charm is not working. I'm a little shell shocked by this information; I've never seen it not work before, on anyone. "What do you want to know? I was in Edinburgh when it happened. I saw Sebastian the morning before he died. He was distraught, upset and crying. It seemed he'd been told about Lord Arthur's new man." At this her green eyes scan the table and alight on Geoff. She gives him a thin lipped smile, he nods to her. Then she looks as Sherlock.

"Have you ever had any sexual relationship with Mr. Faulkes?" he asks her bluntly. I splutter, it's obvious from her whole demeanour, her whole being, that men are not her area of interest. She raises one eyebrow. It's the facial equivalent of napalm.

"No." She says and sits back in the chair. Sherlock nods.

"I only ask as sometimes people decide on a good friend as a sort of... fallback for if ever they..."He stops talking when he sees her face. If the last expression was napalm then this one is Enola Gay.

"A safety wife." Laura gets up and moves across to Ms Barker, she holds out her hand. The two women shake and it's like statesmen from rival nations, equal but powerful. I get the impression I'm at some kind of lesbian summit meeting. "I think the term is safety wife. Quite a useful idea don't you think? Stops silly questions and messing about from bloody relations." She smiles widely and Ms Barker's answering smile, while not blistering, is at least not registered on a Geiger counter.

"Mmm. Yes, I see what you mean. But no, that wasn't me." She smiles a bit more now, almost apologetically. Laura beams, touches Ms Barker's hand.

"Sorry about all this fuss... can I call you Tamsyn?" Ms Barker nods. "It's just that were all desperate to help out a friend. You know how it is?" Ms Barker nods again, her eyes firmly on Laura's. I look at Rose who is smiling gently. She sees me and raises her eyebrows, shrugs.

"Well, of course. I mean, I felt much the same way about Seb. Silly sod, I kept telling him to leave it alone but no, he just got more and more dramatic..." she rolls her eyes and Laura chuckles. "Well, you know how they are." I feel every man at the table bristle and then realise the truth of this statement. I share a guilty look with Geoff who gives me a sideways smirk.

"How did he find out about Art's new romance?" Laura asks in a matter of fact tone. I look over at Geoff who is looking at his nails, hands splayed on the tablecloth. He doesn't look up but I know what he's thinking, he's thinking all this wouldn't be happening to Art f he'd not met Geoff. I remind myself to tell him later that this is utter bullshit.

"I don't really know. Friend of a friend? He implied that I would know too, I didn't," she wrinkles her nose, "but he thought I would have been told by the same person. It didn't seem important really." She looks at Laura who nods and passes her a glass of wine. Ms Barker takes a mouthful.

"So, have you any idea from where he might have got this poison?" Laura asks gently. Ms Barker frowns, screws up her mouth.

"No, sorry I haven't. I'd have thought he was the sort of chap to slit his wrists if he was going to do it at all. You know, all very Roman emperor." She pulls a face which shows exactly what she thinks of this particular pretension.

"Do you think he was murdered then?" Sherlock asks, his hands steepled under his nose, index fingers supporting his head which is leaning forward intently. Ms Barker looks at Sherlock for a heartbeat. The table is silent and most of the other diners have finished their meal and gone.

"I think I do Mr. Holmes. I think I do."

**I had no idea where this was going and I'm sorry if it shows. It started to fall into place about 500 words in. Eek. Let me know what you think of Ms Barker, I'll be interested to know your ideas.**

**Thank you as always to the Baker Street Irregulars, I'm hoping I'll get to meet some of you when I go with Verityburns to London on the 27****th **** for the fanmeet. If you're interested in coming please check the LiveJournal Sherlock Community or send me a PM. PrincessNala (got rid of the workmen yet?)and Peachsilk (thanks for putting up with my ranting about 3****rd**** person, people not fine tuning Sherlock's character and Ed the Odd!)) Darmed (haven't heard from you for a while and I hope you're doing well darling) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (you've got lots to catch up on, hope you enjoy it!) thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal, Dead Air Space and Sapphykins! Thanks for your help, support and general all round loveliness!**

**Love as always to Reggie for painting the house, feeding us all and being a star. **


	11. Things take a turn

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

Lunch ends on a pretty sombre note when Tamsyn Barker leaves. She doesn't know who or why she thinks Sebastian was murdered but she 'just does'. Tremendous. That gives us loads to go on. Fucking hell.

Laura and Rose go out shopping for the afternoon and Sherlock and John go back to their room. Sherlock's mumbling something about phone calls, the internet and 'not being distracted'. John's looking glum but he follows him anyway. Poor John. I wonder if they'll ever have a holiday. You know, just go away without someone being accused of murder, seeing a ghost, going missing and turning up dead. There doesn't seem to be much downtime for the two of them.

I look over at Art who is finishing his glass of wine and looking thoughtful. This is killing me. I bloody know damn well that Art didn't kill Sebastian, he hasn't got it in him and he was with me all night. That's exactly what I told McKay but then I remembered the fifteen minutes that I went downstairs to order some more beer when the desk wasn't answering the phone. Apparently fifteen minutes was ample time for Art to get to Sebastian's room, over power and inject him with the puffer fish poison.

Art notices me looking and smiles a pale smile. I put my hand over his and squeeze.

"Hey, it's going to be alright. Sherlock is brilliant Art, really brilliant. He'll find the one thing no one else does. That's his thing, his forte." The wan smile plays over his lips.

"And if he doesn't?"

"If he doesn't we'll run away." The smile widens a little.

"Join the circus?"

"Or the navy." I grip his hand more tightly. He plays with the stem of the wine glass. "What? Is there something wrong, something more wrong that all this I mean?" He shakes his head.

"Thanks Geoff, thanks for looking after me, staying positive, helping Sherlock interview people."

"Art, I'd be a pretty useless boyfriend," he grins suddenly at the word, his face illuminated and it makes me stop in my tracks. He is heart stoppingly handsome. "Well, yeah. I would be if I didn't help investigate. It is what I do, in case you'd not noticed." His turn to squeeze my hand.

"Take me to bed." His voice is low and he looks at me from under those long lashes. I feel my pulse quicken. I roll my eyes in a fake expression of boredom.

"If I _have_ to..." he smiles and I stand up, still holding his hand and tug him after me.

The lift doors open and the small brushed metal cube is occupied by five old ladies. I smile and am about to wave them on, not willing to pack myself into the crowd of geriatric handbags and coats but one of them fixes me with a big smile and a steely glare.

"Oh come on!" She trills in a very Scottish accent. "There's plenty of room for a wee skinny one like you." She looks past me to Art.

"Oh and there's always room for a nice handsome chappy like you." Another one coos. I roll my eyes and Art laughs and steps in behind me.

Now the way that we are packed in means Art is right behind me, back to the doors. Old ladies flank me on either side and there is a strong odour of the kind of floral perfume which is characteristic, if not a little clichéd, by this generation of woman. None of us can move much at all and our lower bodies are pretty much packed in, most of the older ladies are substantially bigger around their middles.

There's that uncomfortable polite smiling silence as we go up a floor. The lift has never seemed so slow before. In a minute I'm going to have to talk about the weather or something because the silence is like a big, floral smelling blanket.

I'm just at the point when I'm toying between 'it's much colder up here than it is in London' or 'isn't Edinburgh beautiful in the winter' when I feel Art's hands move. He parts my coat at the section where it divides into two tails and he puts his hands on me.

His palm cups my buttock and squeezes slightly. I try not to jump but I am afraid I must hiss in a sharp, quiet breath. The old lady next to me, pink lipstick and green silvery eye shadow, raises an eyebrow at me. I smile. Then I feel his other hand. He now has hold of my entire arse with his hands. We stand like this for what seems like an age and I wish our room was not on the eight floor.

His hands smooth over the fabric of my trousers and he traces the crease between my cheeks with one finger. I bite my lip and feel myself begin to harden. I bloody hope that old lady is holding her handbag between my groin and her legs. From behind me I feel, more than hear, Art's chuckle on my neck.

The finger traces up and down more than once, sending hot shivers all over me and making me feel like one of those devices they show you in Science at school. You know the one, the electricity zapping through me all converging on my cock. My cock which is now nearly fully hard and aching. Everyone still avoiding each other's eyes.

"So, are you on holiday?" An old lady to my right asks Art.

"Yes, we've just got away from London for the week. Are you on holiday?" I can't fucking believe it; he's having a chit chat with an old woman while he fondles my arse. He's un fucking believable.

The old lady launches into a story about how they're all old school friends who meet up every year and it's quite sweet really but I can't think because Art's finger is softly running over and down the crease of my buttocks, pushing slightly when he reaches that part of me which is in danger of making me just moan out loud in front of the five old school friends.

Mercifully the lift doors open but it's not our floor. It's the sixth floor and our friends are getting off her. I appear not to be getting off yet at all, I think wildly and the suspense is killing me. They shuffle past us and I hope to god no one notices my erection. Art pushes me back against the wall and stands in front of me to wave them off. Then he whirls on me and pins my shoulders to the back of the lift space, pushing my coat open and grinding his warm body against me.

"Art! Fucking hell man!" I start to protest but his mouth is over mine and his tongue is between my lips. It's like touching a battery with your tongue, sparks tingle through me. I can barely breathe and he's moving down my neck, sucking at me like his life depends upon it, making me growl with the sharp stabbing pleasure coursing through me.

His hands find my cock and he moans appreciatively into my collar bone. He strokes me and my hips buck against him. I feel him smile before he drops to his knees. We only have two floors to go, what if someone wants to get in? I try to push him away but he's strong. His agile hands grip the back of my knees and he rubs his face along the seam of my flies. I moan and thrust, I can't bloody help it.

I don't know if it's that golden head smoothing along my length or the idea of getting caught or the notion that he cannot wait but something about this turns me on so fucking much that I want to just unfasten my buttons and fuck his mouth right here. The waves of desperation and lust are buffeting my will and the rational voice of reason is not winning.

He mouths along my erection, his breath hot through my trousers. I groan.

"God, Art. Jesus, what the fuck?" I gasp out as he does it again, slipping his mouth over the tip of my confined, aching erection. He chuckles and it thrums through me. Behind us there is a ping.

In seconds Art pulls my coat together and is scrabbling on the floor like he's lost something. I look up in panic and there's a woman and a man getting into the lift. Their polite smiles falter for a second while they register Art's posture on his hands and knees patting the carpet.

"Have you lost something?" The woman says. She's blonde, middle aged, very pretty.

"Bloody contact lens..." Art mutters from the floor, frantically patting the ground. "Just popped right out. Bloody hell!" He stands up and I watch him pull his sweater down. He looks the woman unwaveringly in the eye.

"What a nuisance." She says, charmed by the confidence of his lying, that public school, upper class, trust him with anything, air he has. I have to smile. Then the doors ping open and, thank god, it's the eighth floor. I shuffle out, Art accepting the woman's condolences about the fictitious lens and covering for me as I escape.

I get to the door of the room and realise he has the card. He swaggers down the corridor, grinning like a fool. He waves the card and then makes it fall through his fingers like a magician.

"Want to get in?" He says advancing on me and cupping my hard cock, pressing himself against me. In a panic I look down the corridor, anyone could see us. I nod and gasp as he squeezes and tugs at me. "Are you going to let me suck your cock Sir?" My breath comes out in one long sigh. He's so confident, so cocky. I don't answer because; frankly I've lost the capacity of speech. He frowns and squeezes again, I moan.

"Are you going to let me suck your cock Sir? You can come in my mouth if you want to? Or my face? My hair?" He licks along the length of my cheek and I can't help but think where that mouth is going. I nod, trying to regain some command of the situation.

"Yes Arthur. You may." He grins and swipes the card over the pad. The door swings open.

Once we're inside I point to a place by the bed and he smiles and kneels down obediently. I take off my coat, my hands trembling. I stand in front of him, he smiles up at me.

"I'm not going to do anything Arthur. This is about you showing me that all I have to be is hard and you'll suck my cock like a good boy." I feel totally lame and it's obvious any command I have is entirely given by him. "Do you understand?" He grins and then the smile is gone. He nods and looks up at me. Those dark blue eyes are almost violet in the light of the afternoon. He licks his lips and I feel myself shiver. He grins again.

His hands slide up my thighs, roughly stroking over my muscles and up to my groin. They break apart as they fan out to each side of my cock and I let out a long breath which I didn't realise I was holding. He rubs his face along the length of me. The motion rekindling any flagging of my arousal in the time it's taken us to get to this point. I feel his breath through the fabric, the movement of his lips as he mouths along my throbbing flesh. I want to grab him, make him do it now but this is not the rules I have made. Damn.

When I can't bear the muffled torment anymore he unfastens my trousers, pushing them down over my hips. His fingers flutter over my tender skin, still hidden by the fabric of my shorts. My hips buck forward, my body making it very clear what it wants from him but he doesn't make it easy.

The lightest touches of his fingertips are joined with that mouth, open and hot though the thin cotton and he presses his lips over the tip of my erection and sucks down as far as the restricting material will allow him. My hands are hovering behind his head, I want to thrust violently, make him take all of me in his throat but I press my palms together, locking the fingers behind my head, pushing my pelvis further towards him.

He takes the waistband of my shorts in his teeth and tugs them down slowly. The combined sensation of the moving fabric and the heat of his breath are making it harder for me to stay still. When he has freed my cock, he sits back on his haunches and just looks at it. It's an amazing moment; it feels like his eyes are caressing me, I can almost feel the scorching touch of his glances. He leans forward slowly, eyes lifted to mine and he takes the tip of me in his mouth. I groan.

He rolls those full lips over me, teasing and wet. He pulls away and I see my cock bounce from the pressure of this release. I nearly come just watching him. Then his mouth is on me again and he's swallowing, down and down, more of me that I think he can take. The heat and the softness and the wet of his tongue and mouth are heaven after all the teasing and the toying. I thrust into him and he opens his throat to take all of me. Fuck. My fingers grip the back of my head, imagining that my short, bristly hair is his blonde, soft curls.

I try to hold still, my legs trembling and he moves along me, doing the work for me, taking me to the place where things are going to explode. In the back of mind are his words at the door. When he said I could come in his face, his hair. Jesus wept. I really want to do that. It's always been a fantasy of mine but it's seemed very inappropriate in my former relationships, disrespectful, rude. But Art is offering me this, this is a part of our game and I can have it if I want it. I touch his cheek and he stops, he is panting and his breath over me is like flames. He looks up at me, eyes questioning.

"I don't want to come in your mouth Arthur. I want you to show me that your mine to do with what I want. Do you understand." The eyes crinkle in what I can only assume is a smile. He nods, forcing my cock deeper into his throat. I gasp, he chuckles. I nudge my hips forward, he takes the hint.

He is working his tongue against me, swirling it over my skin and eliciting growls and curses from my lips as he plays me like a tune. I feel the pressure building as his actions become fiercer, more forceful. His lips press against me and he hollows his cheeks. I feel myself spilling towards that bright edge. A few more thrusts and I am there, all my consciousness is on that part of my body and I feel myself begin to come. He pulls back from me and I can't help myself, I couldn't stop if I wanted to. I hold his hair and look down. I watch myself coming, fascinated by this sight, so erotic, so edgy, as my come bursts onto his face and drips down his cheek, into the hollow of his throat. He doesn't look upset, or outraged, his eyes lock mine in an intense stare. He sees right into me and suddenly I am aware that, by doing this, I have shown him a very intimate part of my psyche. It isn't he who has been exposed, it's me.

Dr John Watson's POV

Sherlock's been tapping on the phone and the laptop for the best part of an hour. He's looked up at me once when I brought him a cup of tea; he smiled, drank it in one movement, put it down and hasn't looked up again. I don't mind really, I know he wants to solve this puzzle for Art, and for himself. This is what he's like when he's working.

I write him a note that says 'when you want distracting, let me know'. And I push it onto the keyboard of the laptop. I get my jacket and make for the door. I turn back just in time to see Sherlock's hands trying to type through the sticky note of the message. He frowns, looks down, reads the note. He looks up at me and smiles widely and nods. I wave.

I realise Laura and Rose are out for the afternoon and so I decide to buy a magazine from the shop across the road and read it in the bar. I enjoy people watching and I might spot something useful.

I've bought a rugby magazine, I like to read them now and again, remind myself of a sport I played for so long, before the war and the leg. I don't follow a team but I enjoy reading about it, seeing who is playing well and what the league gossip is.

After reading a few pages I glance up and begin to start deducing the lives of my fellow customers. A gang of old ladies spill out of the lift, raucous and laughing like teenagers. They're all about the same age and are wearing some kind of badge sewn into smart jackets they are wearing. They look like a pre war hen night. I'm just trying to decide what club or women's institute they belong to when a tall man arrives though the revolving doors like a vengeful Greek god. The description is the first that springs to mine and no, it's not too dramatic, thank you. He is terrifying and beautiful. Everyone stops to look at him, including the ancient hen nighters who one by one nudge each other and fall silent as this startling personality strides through the foyer.

He's about fifty, he could be older but his tanned face is hard to judge, and he's built like one of the men in my magazine. His blonde, thick hair curls around his face, which, if he didn't look so bloody, alarmingly angry, would be handsome, chiselled in the style of a fair Clark Kent. He's wearing a tweed jacket and a kilt. This doesn't seem to raise any eyebrows and I wonder if it's perfectly normal to see a man in highland garb in Edinburgh, he's the first one I've ever seen.

All this is quite astonishing but it's not what arrests me or those about me. It's the waves of roiling anger flowing from him as he stomps across the floor to the reception that have us all standing amazed. Just before he opens his mouth, just before he demands, in a voice that wouldn't sound wrong coming out of Zeus' mouth if Zeus were slightly Scottish, to know which room his son is taking I realise who this man is. Oh god. It's the Marquess of Queensbury, Art's dad.

**Ok I am concerned about this chapter because of it pushing some people's potential 'ick' button. Did it? Or did I handle it ok? Sorry, couldn't resist the pun, it's what emailing Peachsilk does to you! Thanks for all the support for my writing in this fandom, it really humbles me when you bother not only to review, but to write so much and be so kind to me. Honestly, it amazes me how fab you all are. **

**Thank you as always to the Baker Street Irregulars, I'm hoping I'll get to meet some of you when I go with Verityburns to London on the 27****th **** for the fanmeet. If you're interested in coming please check the LiveJournal Sherlock Community or send me a PM. PrincessNala (I'm assuming the workmen are still there? What ARE they doing?) And Peachsilk (sorry for making you splutter in front of son. And thanks for being nice to me when I was ill.) Darmed (haven't heard from you for a while and I hope you're doing well darling) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (you've got lots to catch up on, hope you enjoy it!) thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal, Dead Air Space, Melissa Ivory (told you I'd put you in!) and Sapphykins! Thanks for your help, support and general all round loveliness!**

**Love as always to Reggie for sanding the floors, feeding us all and being a star. **


	12. Crisis Point

Dr John Watson's POV

So now I'm panicking. A fully fledged, wave my arms about and weep, panic. I have to get to Art and Lestrade before that man in the kilt finds them. I briefly consider ringing them or texting but it's too unreliable. I can't phone their room because he's talking to reception and they won't be able to put me through without making it obvious. I look quickly at the lift. My only chance.

The old hen night ladies are milling about like sheep without a sheepdog, effectively blocking Zeus' view of the lift. I sprint towards them and grab a passing porter. His eyes go wide with terror as I drag him along.

"I only did what I was told!" he says incomprehensively. I shake my head at him. What the fuck is he talking about? He sees my confusion and quickly changes tack. "What? What? How can I help?"

"Stop that man!" I press a twenty pound note into his hand and he looks at me in a dazed fashion. "That man!" I point at Zeus who is bearing down upon us. Then I grab a hen night girl.

"Hi, isn't he famous? I'm sure he was in..." I mumble conspiratorially, she looks at me and then at the athletic specimen of manhood striding across the floor towards us. "He is!" I insist nodding, she nods apprehensively and nudges her friend.

"Is he famous?" she asks and the friend nods numbly, eyes never leaving the Marquess' bulky frame.

"Get his autograph!" I suggest, "the girls at home will be so jealous." The lady next to me grins, her pink lipstick a wide stripe in her wrinkled face, it's pretty scary. She lurches away to head him off at the pass. Mission obstruction accomplished, I jab my finger at the lift button.

Have you ever noticed how slowly things move when you're in a desperate fucking situation? I watch the numbers light up and just pray that I reach the eighth floor in time. The doors open with a soft bell like noise and I fall out onto the corridor trying to get my bearings. I lurch towards the door of the hotel room as I hear the second lift wheezing up the hotel floors. I bang on the door like it's a raid. Nothing. I bang again.

"For fuck's sake! Open the fucking door!" The door opens and it's Lestrade. I take in his dazed expression, the flush in his cheeks and his half lidded eyes and guess they were in bed. Jesus!

I push into the room and lock it behind me. It doesn't take long for Lestrade to snap into awareness and I just notice Art getting up from the floor and taking off his shirt. Ok, not in bed, but close John.

Art wipes his face and goes into the bathroom hurriedly. I look at Lestrade and a million ideas about what I have just seen go through my head. I raise an eyebrow; he looks at me steadily as though daring me to say something. I open my mouth, then I close it and shake my head.

"Good boy." Lestrade pats me on the shoulder and grins. "Now? What's with the cloak and dagger?" This brings me back to the pressing matter which I can hear coming down the corridor. There is a bellowing and stamping making its way here.

"That," I point to the door, "_that_ is Art's dad!" Art bursts from the bathroom, he looks white, scared. Jesus, what it is about this man? As I think this the hammering on the door begins.

"Arthur! Open this blasted door boy!" The shouting is unmistakably furious and used to getting its own way. I look at Lestrade; he pulls down his shirt, tucks himself in and walks towards the door. Art makes to stop him, open terror on his face, but he gets there too late and Lestrade, belligerence written all over his expression, pulls open the door.

Art's father begins to charge past Lestrade who holds the door open with his hand and doesn't move. The Marquess looks down at the policeman as if he were an insect on his arm, ready to be brushed away by one of those giant hands.

"Sir, if you'd just give me a moment..." Lestrade begins and I have forgotten for the moment that Geoff is used to dealing with outraged members of the public. This is his customer service voice. It's smooth, impressive. The look on the Marquess' face flickers briefly from contempt to interest and then he pushes past Lestrade and grab should of Art's shirt. He brings back a fist.

Without giving a second thought to what I am doing I launch myself across the room to block the punch which is aimed squarely for Art's head. I bang into Lestrade en route and we knock each other off course but we also put out the Marquess' swing and he misses Art who dodges out of his grasp.

"What the fucking hell are you doing?" shouts Lestrade, all social nicety gone now, his face a mask of rage. The Marquess turns to him slowly and frowns as though he's surprised to hear someone speak to him in that tone. I realise that he probably is, I can't imagine many people use that particular expression with him.

"I said, what the fucking hell are you doing? That's assault!" Lestrade has calmed down a little but he is still shaking with anger.

"Who's this?" The question is aimed at Art, as though his father cannot demean himself to speak to Lestrade or I. Art swallows and I can see him thinking.

"This is Inspector Lestrade of Scotland yard and I'm Dr John Watson formerly of the Northumberland regiment sir. We're here trying to help your son." I step in, all my old peace keeping exercises falling back into place. I look at the man mountain before me and try to remember I have dealt with scarier situation than this back in Afghan. Yes, says a small voice inside me, but then you had a 'peace keeping' army backing you up.

The Marquess looks at Art, who nods dumbly. He looks at Lestrade who straightens his jacket which he has just put back on; I'm guessing the addition of clothing makes him feel less vulnerable.

"How exactly are you helping?" he asks and then doesn't wait for an answer. "I thought they were part of your bloody harem of queers!" This is aimed at Art who winces. It's terrible to see the contrast between this frightened boy before me and the confident, urbane young man he usually appears to be. There is a quiet cough in the doorway. It's Sherlock, hair askew and pale face looking annoyed.

"I am trying to work!" he shouts, waving his arms like a windmill. "How can I deduce anything? How can I investigate and pick apart this knotty matter with this mayhem, this racket, going on!" He glares around the room with that pale blue laser beam.

Laura and Rose appear behind him, Laura on her tiptoes trying to see what is going on. Rose has hold of her arm but we can all see that Laura's temper is sorely frayed. From the look on her face she really hates Art's dad. And I can't say I blame her.

"How dare you? How dare you just march in here and start insulting people, hitting people?"" She shrieks at the top of her voice. Rose holds her arm but Laura shrugs it off. She stalks over the Marquess, head tilted defiantly. He looks at her and I watch as his fist clenches slowly.

"Go on! Go on! I fucking dare you! Hit me! I know it's not beneath you to hit a woman! Hit me and I will pick up the nearest heavy object and hit you right fucking back, you monster!" For a moment there is stillness. Lestrade looks at me and his look just seems to ask how on earth two ordinary men like us ended up in a posh hotel in Edinburgh with three demented members of the aristocracy shouting at each other. I twist my mouth. I really don't know.

Then the silence breaks as Inspector McKay bundles past Sherlock and over to Art who is still looking stunned. McKay gets hold of Art's arm.

"Lord Arthur Douglas I am arresting you for the murder of Sebastian Faulkes. You do not have to say anything but anything you do say may be taken down in evidence and used against you in a court of law." Everyone stops shouting.

Two hours later and four of us are in Laura's room. Geoff's gone to the station with Art. McKay wasn't going to let him but it was Geoff or Art's dad and McKay chose wisely.

The last thing we saw of Art was his pale face, blanched under that healthy tan so that he seemed like a faded photograph of himself, as McKay led him out of the hotel. Laura and Rose were crying and I felt the familiar prickle in my nose that usually means tears. Only Geoff and Sherlock seemed unmoved. Geoff packing things hurriedly into a bag with a face of stone. Sherlock texting and pacing the floor.

We've ordered room service but no one feels like eating. I pick at the steak pie and chips I ordered and think about what McKay said.

He was reluctant to tell us anything, especially with the Marquess stamping around and shouting about the family name, how Art has brought disrepute on the Douglas character. Taking our cue from Laura, who seems to be the only person not terrified of the hulking man, we ignored him. Eventually, to our surprise he had stalked from the room, muttering about finding a lawyer and then locking Art up somewhere himself. McKay had visibly relaxed a little.

"It's the tetrodotoxin." He said gravely when Sherlock and Lestrade both asked him what had brought on this sudden decision to arrest Art. "Curnow and Sons are the only people who sell Fugu in the entire British Isles, that's puffer fish," he explained as he looked at us each in turn. "And they've only sold to one person in the last six months." Art's head sunk onto his chest, Geoff placed his hand on his arm.

"And that was to Art?" Sherlock's head was cocked to one side and I could tell he was thinking of something. McKay nodded. Sherlock whirled away and stood looking out of the window, his fingers steepled under his chin. I knew those pale eyes were not seeing the street of busy shoppers and business people hurrying home for the weekend. They were looking into the heart of the investigation, dissecting and unpeeling as I had seen him do so many times in his downstairs lab. He turned again, sharply on one heel, the motion almost balletic, light and graceful. "Have you considered that the toxin might not be puffer fish?" McKay snorted and shook his head disdainfully.

"It's tetrodotoxin Holmes. I had the lab run the tests again." His voice told us all that he understood why we were trying to find holes in his investigation but that he was convinced that there were none through which Art could wriggle. Sherlock just nodded once. Only I would have known from his face that he was not convinced.

In the end there was nothing we could do, no loophole or persuasion we could find or employ. McKay had taken Art away and Geoff had followed them.

Now we sat and watched our food growing cold and congealing on our plates. No one had spoken since the food arrived. I look at Sherlock who is humming to himself it's not a tune or a scale, it's just a noise.

"What are you thinking?" I ask him and then amend my question. "What are you thinking about the case?" He smiles swiftly and then his face is sombre once more.

"Do you ever get that feeling John?" he asks me, head on one side, brows questioningly furrowed. Without waiting for an answer he continues. "The feeling that a name or a word is just on the tip of your tongue? Just there." He puts out a long pointed tongue and taps the end of it. Even though the situation is tense and there is no time for distraction my body begins to respond to the gesture. I cross my legs and sigh and he grins. I nod, Laura and Rose nod too.

"That's where the solution is, just here." He taps again. "I know that I have all the pieces and once I fit one into place... then!" He leaps to his feet and begins to pace.

"What was it you were thinking when you asked McKay about if he was certain it was puffer fish poison?" Laura and Rose look at me and I realise that neither of them had noticed the subtle shift in Sherlock demeanour which told me he suspected something at the time. I allow myself a small spark of pride when he smiles widely at me.

"Good boy John! Excellent deduction! You're quite right; I do have a suspicion about the toxin in question. If only I could get a sample!" He bangs his hands together in frustration.

"Could Geoff get some?" I ask, certain that the answer will be no and that I will be derided for the comment but I have learnt that Sherlock's derision is not serious and that he doesn't consider me any more stupid than all the other people he knows. Even the ones I'd call clever. It's just that, next to him, we _are_ all stupid.

Sherlock's face frowns and then opens like a flower. His eyebrows are almost in his hairline and his mouth is a wide slash of a grin as he bounds across the room and kisses me hard on the mouth.

"Genius! Bloody genius, Dr Watson! John! Phone Geoff and tell him he has to get a sample from the lab!"

I get the phone out of my pocket and scroll to Geoff's number. It rings and then goes to his answer phone. I tell him to ring me as soon as he gets the message. I end the call.

"Why don't you ring the desk and get them to send him up when he gets back in?" Laura suggests and Sherlock nods vigorously. "We don't know what time he'll get your message, at least this way we're certain of reaching him either way." She picks up the phone and dials to reception. We watch her tap her long red nails on the table as she waits for an answer. Then she puts the phone down grimacing.

"No answer?" I ask remembering something. "Geoff said they're useless. I'll go down. I need the walk anyway."

I take the stairs down to the foyer, relishing the opportunity to think. I know just what Sherlock means, there is something, just out of grasp but I know it's there. The sensation reminds me of an itch deep inside the plaster cast of a broken leg.

The foyer is empty save for a few people considering the restaurant menu. I am wandering over to the reception desk when a voice interrupts my thought.

"John! Hi, how are you?" It's Jennifer Samuels. She looks pleased to see me and somewhere I feel a strange flickering as I realise that Sherlock is right, she does like me. I can't help it, there's something very flattering about having this attractive woman interested in me. Whether it is the ego boost or whether it is a genuine returning of my own attraction, I can't tell.

"Hi, I'm... ok I think." I end lamely, releasing how stupid this sounds. I pull a face at my own eloquence and she laughs and touches my arm.

"I know what you mean. I heard about your friend. God, John, I'm so sorry. It must have been such a shock." I frown; her words don't seem to make sense.

"A shock? Art's arrest? Oh... right, you think... no, no. Definitely not. He wouldn't." Halfway through the sentence I figure out what she means, it must have been a shock to realise my friend is a murderer. She looks grave and taken aback by my rebuttal of her theory.

"Oh. Ok. Sorry, I didn't mean to... oh god. What an arse I am. Sorry. Of course you know him much better than I do. Sorry." She looks genuinely embarrassed and this time I touch her arm, just to show there's no hard feelings. She smiles and I smile back.

"No, it's ok. It's natural to think... anyway, what brings you here? I thought this would be the last place you'd want to be." She screws up her face and nods, her dark hair catches the light as she moves her head, the highlights glint blue black in the soft light of the foyer.

"It is, but it's where Phillip wanted to read the will." She shrugs and shakes her head. "I don't know where he got the idea from but we've been in the conference room." I frown trying to imagine why Bannister would have chosen the hotel where his friend was murdered as the place to read his will.

"How was it? The reading I mean? Those things are pretty awful." I find myself caught in her gaze; green eyes hold me like a magnet. She quickly looks away.

"God. Awful. I mean, it was like hearing his voice. All those private jokes in the things he left us..." her voice catches, she starts to cry. Big, fat tears roll down her cheeks and she sniffs and tries to wipe them away with her hands. I dig in my pocket for a tissue. She accepts it without looking at me. "He left us all his money John. All of it, shared out between the four of us. Oh god, it's too bloody awful." She is sobbing now, her shoulders shaking and her tiny frame wracked by the effort of her grief. I put my arms around her, the compulsion to comfort another human being so emotionally ruined is overwhelming.

We stand there, my arms tight about her shaking shoulders, and I feel my jumper getting soaked through with her tears. It's beginning to become uncomfortable. I realise, that no matter what our connection, I hardly know this woman. I notice the porter coming out of his office behind the desk and my posture must change slightly. She notices the shift and pulls back from me, wiping her eyes with the now sodden tissue and sniffing.

"Sorry, god, sorry John. You must think I'm pathetic." I start to make noise to the contrary but she interrupts. "No, it's ok. Look, thanks. I think I just needed to get it out and Tamsyn, well, Tamsyn's not really..." She shrugs and smiles a wan smile. I smile back and nod. She straightens her shoulders.

"Right, I'd better go. It was nice to see you. Maybe next time it'll be in better circumstances. It'd be nice to see you once where I don't end up in tears." She chuckles thinly. I nod and give her a little wave and watch her spin out through the revolving doors. Outside Luke Jennings is being picked up by his possessive older man and it looks like they're having an argument in the car. Suddenly they hug each other and the gesture is so intimate I turn away to speak the porter. He looks at me, eyes wide. I'm just about to speak when I hear Geoff behind me.

"John, alright?" He sound so tired and I'm not surprised when I see his face. The rings under his eyes are dark grey. His hair is standing practically on end and I know that this is from him rubbing his hands over his head, a gesture I have seen him employ when Sherlock is at his most frustrating.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm ok. How're you? How's Art?" I gesture to the porter that I don't need him anymore and he turns gratefully away. Geoff sighs.

"Fucking hell John. Fucking hell. It's like a fucking nightmare." He rubs his hand through his hair and I fight the urge to smile at the gesture despite the seriousness of the situation. We walk to the lift in silence.

Once inside, the warmth and the soft lighting combine with the gentle purring of the mechanics to create a strange, womblike atmosphere.

"Sherlock wants you to get him a sample of the poison from the lab." I tell him, trying to forestall the massive argument that I know will happen when Sherlock, in his matter of fact, tactless way, tells Geoff his plan. Geoff is not in the mood for orders. He looks at me sideways and shakes his head wearily.

"Why? What's he going to find out that the fucking Lothian and Borders Police force can't?" he says in a dangerous monotone. I purse my lips and breathe through my nose.

"I know, I know. But if it's something then wouldn't you rather he tried?" Geoff doesn't say anything, he just stares at the numbers flicking up and up.

We reach the eighth floor. The doors slide open and I get out. Geoff stays where he is. For a moment I think he's lost it. He's going to tell Sherlock to fuck off and do his own dirty work. He looks me in the eye. I've never seen anyone look so frighteningly determined in my life, and that's saying something.

"Tell Sherlock I'll be back with the poison in two hours." He says as he lets the lift doors slide closed between us.

* * *

**So argh! That was awful to write and I know some of you are going to be very distressed. I am sorry! Let me know what you think of everyone in this chapter, there was a lot of character juggling to be done! It's invaluable having your input!**

**I really love the Baker Street Irregulars; I'm hoping I'll get to meet some of you when I go with Verityburns to London on the 27****th **** for the fanmeet. If you're interested in coming please check the LiveJournal Sherlock Community or send me a PM. PrincessNala (yay! You're back1 and the workmen have gone1 rejoice!) And Peachsilk (if she wasn't such an utter star you wouldn't be reading this bc ff wouldn't work for me and she posted it! Thank you darling) Darmed (sending you good luck and love) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat (thanks for the grr on my behalf and being a smart cookie about what makes slashfic tick), Mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (hope you're alright babes) thegeekyprincess (thanks for being on my side and being unflappable) and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal, Dead Air Space, Melissa Ivory and Sapphykins! Thanks for your help, support and general all round loveliness!**

**Love as always to Reggie for being a sweetheart. **


	13. Breakthrough

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

I'm in luck because the lab bloke on duty this late at night is a Londoner.

I've tied myself in knots with all the thinking I've been doing on the way over here. I can't get the image of Art in the cells out of my head. He doesn't deserve to be there and that thought cuts me far deeper than the idea of him in that grey box. I'm a police officer and the reason for that is that I have a keen sense of justice. I couldn't stand it at school when bullies got away, it used to eat me up inside as I walked home. The unfairness and the lack of balance in the universe were like a tooth ache which throbbed and wouldn't let me sleep. I can still remember how that toothache was salved for a while when I solved my first case and brought one of those bullies, albeit with a new name and a new way to bully, to justice. I knew right then that I had done the best thing I could ever have done in joining the force. So this injustice gnawed at my guts.

It was relatively easy to get down to the labs. The desk sergeant wasn't really interested in my warrant card. This late at night and with my rank it was easier to let me go down there than it was for him to check what I was doing there. And like I said, when I got down to the labs I was in luck. I knew it as soon as I saw Billy Pickin.

He's about twenty five and I have a moment where I wonder if I'm getting old when men his age seem like schoolboys. He's got that shiny, enthusiastic look about him that they all have when they first start but the real pleasure, the first time something goes right for us in this whole bloody business, is when he opens his mouth.

"Evenin', can I 'elp?" he asks with a lopsided smile. I grin and show him my card. His grin gets bigger. "The Yard? Bloody 'ell. What do you want Inspector?"

"Billy?" I read his name tag and he nods. "Billy, I was going to come here and tell you some cock and bull story about needing a sample for case I'm working on but I'm not going to bullshit a fellow Londoner, where from by the way?" Billy's obviously flattered and this makes him more likely to help me out but I realise I have hit jackpot when he tells me where he used to live.

"Stoke Newington." He says grinning; I shake my head in sheer astonishment at my own luck.

"Me too. Bloody hell eh? Small world." He nods and then leans across the desk.

"So, what can I do you, Inspector Lestrade of Stoke Newington?" he says softly. I lean with him.

"You've got a toxin in your labs, poisoned a man at the Howard Hotel?" he nods and bites his lip. "Look, I'm not here on official business and... you don't have to help me but..." he stands back and crosses his arms.

"What do you want chief? A sample? The reports?" He cocks an eyebrow and, for a second I'm not sure if he is going to play along.

"Both?" I say, twisting my mouth to show I know how much I'm pushing it.

"Done," he nods once. "Give me ten minutes. I can meet you in the cafe over the road if you want? Or I can hand it over here?" Bless him; he thinks he's in some TV police programme.

"I'll wait here. Best to let me get it out of the building rather than risk you getting caught. I'd feel like a bastard if I got you in trouble." He smiles.

"Right you are chief. Sit yourself over there. I'll be back as soon as I can. Not many folk about at this time of night and I'm working the case anyway so it'll be fine." And he goes out of the pale grey door and leaves me to sit and wonder if Art is under this same roof, looking at the same dull paint and wondering where I am and if Sherlock will be able to get him out of this.

I'm bloody glad when Billy comes back with a brown paper bag. He passes it to me and he grins.

"I've had to dilute the sample slightly so I could hide that any had been taken. With this sort of thing the amount's important. Tell your lab it's a 70/30 split. They'll know what to do. And the file's in there too, well, a copy." I tell him I can't thank him enough and he just shakes his head and dismisses me with a shrug.

"It's alright Sir. Sometimes to catch the bad guys we have to be a bit ingenious with the rules, right?" I smile but they way he just called me sir is like a knife in the guts. Fucking hell.

Dr John Watson's POV

Geoff is back in an hour and a half. He knocks on the door and Sherlock goes to answer it. They don't speak he just holds out a brown paper bag and Sherlock takes it from him and turns straight back to the table where he's carefully set up his equipment.

Sherlock still doesn't speak as he rips open the bag empties its contents onto the table. He reads the document it holds while gently tipping the test tube this way and that in his left hand, glancing from one to the other.

"It's not pure," he says frowning. "It's a 70/30 split." He isn't speaking to us and I am reminded of those tape recorders pathologists use on which to record their autopsies. Sometimes it's how Sherlock sees the rest of the world. Geoff walks over to the table and looks at the glass and metal and electronic gadgets laid out in rows across the table cloth.

"Yeah, the guy at the lab had to dilute it so no one noticed he'd taken it." He says in a flat voice. Sherlock glances at him.

"Clever, I like that. That man will go far." Sherlock starts to unstopper the tube and uses a pipette to drop a tiny bit of the liquid onto a slide and then another drop into a tiny tube which he puts inside the mini portable centrifuge. He adds a powder to the slide. Then he presses a switch and the centrifuge begins to whir. He goes back to reading the document. He is wrapped up in his world of formulas and composition.

"Come and have a drink, Laura's bought a bottle of whisky. Want one? A double?" I ask Geoff as he sits in front of the fire which we have had lit in the open grate and kicks off his shoes. He appears to be beyond weary. His face crumples a little and he looks suddenly old and tired. He nods and Laura puts the glass in his hand and then sits back down in the armchair she has pulled up to the fire. The sofa on which I am sitting effectively divides the room into two spaces. This place where we are sitting and Sherlock's 'lab'.

"How was Art?" Rose asks from her place by Laura's feet. She's sitting on the floor, her long woollen jumper over her knees and Laura's hand plays idly with her blonde hair. Geoff sighs and sips his drink.

"Brave. You know how he is. He was just telling me to help Sherlock and that he'd be out soon. He did say to avoid his dad though if I could. What is wrong with that man?" This last question is to Laura. She frowns and shakes her head slowly.

"He's a psycho. A complete nut job. He broke Art's mother's arm while she was pregnant with him. And then he just got worse. I've had Art come over, bruised and frightened. One time, when we were teenagers, Daddy actually went out to find Art's father. He had his hunting gun with him. We sat up worrying that one of them would be dead by the morning. Everyone knows he's a brute but he's so rich and well known by the right people that no one can touch him." I am distracted briefly as Sherlock's head comes up from his experiments. His face is thoughtful and alert. He sees me watching him and winks. I smile. He bends back to the table, face once again focussed.

"Well, someone's got to fucking touch him." Geoff says his voice dark with anger. "He needs fucking sorting out. John?" I nod. Art's dad is a lunatic.

"Who are you texting Sherlock?" Rose asks, craning her neck to see from the floor what Sherlock is doing. He doesn't reply, he just puts down the phone and gets back to work. She shrugs.

It's not long before everyone is tired and I can see that we just want the day to be over. I ask Geoff if he wants to sleep here but he shakes his head. With promises to meet at breakfast everyone leaves. I look back from the door at Sherlock, adding to and shaking, smelling and holding the contents of a glass bottle to the light. I sigh. He'll be there for hours. I kiss his cheek as I go to the bedroom.

"I'm going to get some sleep." I say. "Wake me if it's anything exciting." He nods but doesn't look up from his work.

I lie in the dark and try not to imagine how Art must be feeling. I don't pray because I'm not sure who I would be praying to but I do something. I lie there and I will the most brilliant man I have ever met to find something. I don't remember falling asleep but I must manage it eventually because I am awoken by Sherlock's voice in the dark.

"John," he whispers, that deep voice soft in the gloom. "John, wake up. I've found something." I stir and reach out for him; he is standing by the bed. The light from the other room is a swathe of silver across the floor, bisecting his features.

"What? The poison?" I mumble, coming up out of a deep sleep, my brain still foggy.

"No." He says his voice changing tone as he takes my hand and puts it on his skin. "Something exciting though."

He is hard and naked. He kneels on the bed next to me and uses my hand to smooth over his skin. He shudders as he moves my fingers over his erection and I wake up fully as I feel him sticky on my hands. Suddenly it seems like ages since we touched each other. In an instant my body is aching for him.

He moans my name and the sound jolts though me like electricity. I take control of my hand and move it how I want to, softly over him, swirling my fingertips down him and into his hair. I prop myself on one elbow and pull him down towards me. He kisses me softly, tasting me and letting me take the lead.

If I had any doubts about my attraction to him, if the time we have been together, the familiarity and the companionship which has grown between us had somehow dimmed my ardour for him, they are reduced to ash by the inferno which sweeps over me as I kiss him. I sit up, pushing him down underneath me, kissing him savagely in my attempt to be nearer to him. He growls as my fingers rake over his chest, pinching the small hard buds of his nipples and making him arch up from the bed.

I lie over him and rub myself along him, forcing his legs open with my knee so that I am lying between his thighs, my cock against his. He moves against me and I feel like we are connected by this lust, this desire for each other.

"Oh god, you feel so good." I murmur into his skin as I sweep my tongue from the dip of his collar bone and down his chest. He nods and grips my shoulders with his hands pushing up at me with his hips, moving his legs further apart. I know what he wants, those pale eyes glitter in the dim light of the open doorway and his perfect mouth is open and gasping. It's what I want too. I nod and he smiles, wide and dangerous.

I reach for the bedside drawer, leaning over him and grinding my hips against him as I fumble for the bottle. He chuckles in his throat and grabs my buttocks with those long, delicate fingers, pulling me down to him, using his long reach to press a fingertip at my entrance. I gasp as a tremor of desire overtakes me and I hasten my search for the lube. I find it and slide back over him, catching his lip with my teeth and tugging gently as I hold his shoulders and make him accept my hard kiss. He groans.

"Stop playing John, fuck me." He whispers, the words catching fire across my body, down into my groin. I moan and sit back, running my hands down the soft skin of his thighs, swirling and teasing nearer and nearer as he breathes shallow breaths and watches me through eyes heavy lidded with lust. Once again I marvel at his willingness to be vulnerable for me, his desire for me. I stop briefly to squirt the lube onto my fingers.

While one hand makes teasing strokes, lightly along his cock, the other hand moves down to open him up for me. I slide a finger inside him and I feel him tense and then relax as I steady my rhythm along his erection. I thrust with the finger and pump him with my fist and I am rewarded by him bucking up from the bed, his eyes wide, his mouth open. I can feel the blood thudding through his body and I join that one finger inside him with another. He gasps and pushes down against me, wanting more. Without warning his hand runs down his body and brushes my hand from his cock. He grabs himself and begins to stroke himself, reaching forward, I feel the muscles inside him tensing, and grabbing my cock with his other hand. He matches the rhythm of both hands, slow and lazy, excruciatingly fantastic. He grins at me as he pants and thrusts.

"Impatient." I chuckle and he nods, gasping as he rubs his thumbs over both of us. I grab the hand which is on my skin and, after making him touch me harder, faster, I take it away. Then I do the same for the other hand, the one on his cock. He grins up at me as he thrusts against his own hand, pushing my fingers further inside him and tightening his muscles around me. I can't wait anymore and he knows it.

I slide my hand out of him gently. He moans and I wipe my fingers on my t shirt which I drag over my head and throw across the room. He grabs this hand in his, long, slender fingers entwining with mine, showing me that bodily fluids, social niceties, mean nothing to us. It makes me shiver to think of this, this intensity, this union of which I am a part.

We are both panting, knowing and anticipating the burning pleasure we will feel when I thrust inside him. I move his legs apart with my hands on his knees, pulling a cushion underneath his hips to bring him to the right angle for me. I watch his chest rise and fall as I push inside him slowly. He grabs the bed sheets, arches his body to meet me. The pressure of his muscles clenching around me is powerful and dominating. I thrust slowly, looking into his eyes as I fall over him, one arm propping me up so I can see his face. The other hand grabbing his hip and holding him still as I bear down upon him, inching myself until I am deep in him. His eyes are wide, rolling back with each thrust. His open mouth issues forth groans, pleading and gasping. I hear myself grunt with every thrust, the sound coming from deep inside my chest.

We lie still, feeling the twin pulsing of our blood in the flesh pressed so tightly together. I look at him.

"I love you. " I say to him and he nods and smiles. He quirks an eyebrow.

"I can tell." He says in the dark voice and I chuckle. I pull back and he hisses and moans, his sounds echoed by my own. Together we push and thrust and burn. I feel his hard cock trapped between us as I slide against him, feel his rhythm going, making way for a more primal, animal movement. I feel myself spiralling up and up, his face before me, his beautiful mouth saying my name, begging for more, for me to go deeper, harder. I give him what he wants.

At the moment he comes, as his muscles tighten to such a degree that I almost cannot move, I follow him.

"God. Sherlock. Yes. Oh god." Each word is a thrust; each thrust pulls from him his own words.

"John. John. Oh. Oh. Amazing." We come together.

When there is no where left to climb, we lie silent; I am skewed across his body. We are sticky and content. His eyes are open, looking at me and he is smiling.

"I missed that." He says, "Let's not leave it so long next time." I nod, still trying to get my breath. I feel his arm move and look behind me to see him looking at his watch.

"Don't tell me you were timing us?" I ask in an exasperated, but not at all surprised, voice. He chuckles and I feel it hum through his chest.

"No, just wondering how long that sample's been in the drinks fridge." I raise an eyebrow, I'm not even going to ask, "Hang on." He says wriggling from underneath me.

He pads off through the open door. I watch the lean muscles move under the pale skin. There is the sound of the fridge opening, closing, his long feet slapping their way back.

He stands in the doorway and his long body is silhouetted by the light. I lift myself up on one elbow to see his face. It is lit by glee, he is grinning so hard that it must be hurting his cheeks. He runs across the room and bounds onto the bed with one leap. He stands over me, victorious, elated.

"What?" I ask him, alarmed by this sudden mood. He waves a thin strip of paper at me.

"It's synthetic." He says, barely suppressing his happiness. He does a little jump and the bed shakes."The tetrodotoxin is synthetic. It's not puffer fish!" He bounds off the bed and out of the door.

"Sherlock! Put some clothes on before you wake up Geoff!" I shout in panic as I jump out of bed.

**Sorry it's taken so long. I had visitors and it was all a bit hectic here. Let me know what you think of this chapter. Have Sherlock and John lost it? Have I lost it? I'm off to bed now. That was the last bit of energy I had left!**

**Much love goes to the Baker Street Irregulars; I'm hoping I'll get to meet some of you when I go with Verityburns to London next Saturday (27****th****) for the fanmeet. If you're interested in coming please check the LiveJournal Sherlock Community or send me a PM. PrincessNala (hopefully you won't have to wait weeks to read this) And Peachsilk (who is a gem and I am excited to be seeing her soon!) Darmed (sending you good luck and love) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat (see you next weekend?), Mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (hope you're alright babes) thegeekyprincess (always such a supportive and encouraging friend, thank you) and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal, Dead Air Space, Melissa Ivory and Sapphykins! Thanks for your help, support and general all round loveliness!**

**Love as always to Reggie for being a sweetheart. **


	14. Billy Pickin gets involved

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

I'm not sleeping. I can't. Instead I lie and look at the streetlights chase each other across the ceiling trying not to think about how the muted light from outside reminds me of how it plays across Art's body, how the bed smells of him, of us, and how he might be sleeping tonight. I try to take comfort in the fact that Sherlock is working hard on that sample I got for him but even this seems a slim hope at this time at night. I look at the clock, 2am, the sort of time when you start to think all kinds of dangerous things. I turn over and bang the pillow, I close my eyes but I am just lying still, no sleep is coming tonight. I'm just about to get out of bed and go to the mini bar when there's a terrific banging on the door.

I get out of bed wearily, slipping on my dressing gown over my pyjamas which I am wearing for the first time in weeks. I haven't worn them since I got together with Art. I turn on the lamp and make my way to the door. Whoever is banging sounds like they're trying to break the door down. I raise my eyes and offer a silent prayer that it's not the police again.

Sherlock is wearing his pyjama bottoms and a smart suit jacket. There is nothing on his feet and his hair is standing practically on end. The look on his face is even more alarming than his ensemble. It is manic, gleeful, disturbing. He waves a tiny piece of paper at me, so close to my face I cannot make out what on earth it is. He waves it again and claps his hands. Then he pushes past me.

I am just about to shut the door when John arrives, breathless as he jogs down the silent corridor. He too is wearing his pyjamas though he has gone for the more traditional matching top and bottoms look and is wearing slippers. He grabs the door as I make to close it and hustles me inside. I blink.

"Look, this is very nice of you but I don't need a pyjama party to cheer me up lads. In fact, well, whatever sort of party you were planning," I eye Sherlock's jacket which he is now buttoning up over his pale stomach. "It's a nice thought, but, no." I go to open the door again.

"Tell him then." John looks at Sherlock. Sherlock grins evilly like some kind of alien about to eat the entire crew of the exploration spaceship but he says nothing. I look at John.

"Tell me what? That Sherlock's a candidate for a Gok Wan make over?" I back up my comment with a wave of a hand that captures up Sherlock's current costume. "Or that you two are playing the hotel version of 'knock a door, run'?" I know I'm being mean but I'm seriously not in the mood for this shit.

"Tell him." John is insistent. Sherlock is still grinning.

"Am I a genius Lestrade?" Sherlock asks me infuriatingly. John sighs.

"The poison's synthetic, it's not puffer fish so Art didn't do it." John says, the words rushing out of him. Sherlock looks at him open mouthed. He takes a breath to speak and then stops. Sherlock speechless, that's a new one. John grins. Sherlock hits him on the arm.

"What?" Part of me is wondering if this is some kind of very sick joke and the other part is arguing that these are my friends and that they wouldn't do that to me. "I'm sorry? What?" I repeat frowning at them both.

"John is perfectly right, although it should have been me to tell you as I am the one who actually conducted the experiment." Sherlock says sharply, glaring at John. Then he looks back to me. "It's synthetic tetrodotoxin. Made in a lab. A bloody clever copy which you can only detect if you use... well, something I happened to acquire which is hard to erm... acquire in this country." I goggle at him, mouth open in frank astonishment. It's taken him two hours to find out what the Lothian and Borders police couldn't know in three days.

"So was it disguised?" John asks, sitting down once he's put the kettle on which sits on the small table. Sherlock starts to pace, waving the piece of paper as he explains.

"In a way. You see, I don't think anyone's made a synthetic form of tetrodotoxin before. Why would you need to? So there isn't a standard way to test for it. But I worked on a case a few years ago where there was a need for me to break down a synthetic version of acylpolyamine," he turns to John and comments, "trap door spider venom to you." He is enjoying this, the denouement of his experiment, showing us how clever he is. "Anyway, through working on this case I acquired a small quantity of Maleic hydrazid..."

"That stuff's illegal in the UK! Sherlock, when did you get this? And this case you're referring to... is this the thing with the driving instructor and the inheritance?" I ask him, sharply aware that, in order to free Art and prove his innocence we are all capable of breaking the law. He looks at me, head cocked and then he nods once.

"I brought the hydrazid with me when I found out that poison was involved. It breaks down an organic toxin quite rapidly but has a slight time delay with a lab based version. And of course, the fridge slowed down the process so I could measure it more closely." I look at John. He shakes his head; I suspect he's as amazed as I am.

"So, now we have two questions..." he continues, stuffing the paper into his pocket and steepling his hands in that familiar way, still pacing.

"Who killed Sebastian?" John asks, getting up and pouring tea for us all. Sherlock shakes his head.

"No, that I think already know. Or at least I have a strong suspicion. The questions to which I was referring are these: one, where did this poison come from? And two, how do we convince McKay that Art is innocent."

"We can't tell him about the tetrodotoxin," I say taking the tea from John with a nod. "Because I nicked it from the lab."

"Could you convince that bloke? What's he called? The young bloke you met, gave you this stuff?" John asks me.

"Billy Pickin? Maybe. But how would he have made this discovery. The other chemicals Sherlock used were illegal."

"There is a way to reproduce the effect of the hydrazid in a big lab like they have at the police station..." Sherlock says thoughtfully, "If I could speak to him and tell him the exact circumstances..."

"Right, let's do that then." I say and get up. I pick up my phone and dial the Super.

"Hello?" His voice is sharp even at this time in the morning.

"Hi, look, sorry to bother you at this time... it's Lestrade. I know it's early but..." I say walking to the window.

"Geoff? Oh don't worry about the time. I was wide awake anyway," there is male laughter in the background. "Is everything alright? I heard about that awful business for Art up there in Edinburgh. Is that what you're calling about?" For a second I wonder how he has heard about Sebastian's murder but then I get back to the reason I have telephoned him.

"Yes it is. Two things boss. Is it ok to extend my leave? Sherlock's up here trying to help out and so I'd like to stay if that's alright Sir?"

"Yes, yes of course. Had the paperwork on my desk all week and have been waiting for you to ring. Consider it done. And the other thing? I am a little tied up at the moment." I don't say a word.

"Thanks. Yes, there's a lab guy here at 'L and B' called Billy Pickin, a Londoner sir. I wondered if you could get hold of his home contact details." There is a pause.

"Now? Well, yes I suppose I could. Can I call you back? I need to get to the laptop." There is another sound of laughter. The phone goes dead. I look at Sherlock and John.

"He's phoning back."

Dr John Watson's POV

We debate for a while how we're going to get Billy Pickin into the hotel. Geoff insists that the police will have the CCTV watched because that's what he'd do in a case like this. Sherlock wants to telephone Tiger, the teenage hacker, and get him to sabotage the system but it could be time consuming and Billy Pickin will be here in an hour. In the end we are going to go for old school tactics.

"I'll talk to the porter. Flash the badge; say I want to see the footage. Then I can try to work out how to turn it off for ten minutes. What do you think?"

"Do you know anything about these systems?" Sherlock asks Geoff, smirking up his mouth at the simple idea that he's suggested. Geoff shrugs.

"How hard can it be? It's a camera." Sherlock shakes his head like he's the only adult in the room.

"This equipment cost money, lots of money. It's installed by companies who make sure it can't just be shut down. Maybe Tiger will know how to do it from outside the building." He reaches for the mobile.

"Tiger? Sherlock. Howard Hotel, Edinburgh, security camera system. No, no, just the lobby, lift and corridor..." he waves his hand to us, like a magician conjuring up a number. We mouth it to him. "8c. Yes. Yes. In about..." he waves again and I show him my watch. "Twenty five minutes. If you can. Ok." He pauses and looks at us, then holds the phone away from his mouth.

"He's just getting in," he whispers grinning. Then he must hear something because he goes back to the phone. "They have? Oh. Does that mean...? You did? Right. Great. Thanks. Same account as always? Wonderful." He ends the call.

"Did he do it? That was bloody quick." I say still marvelling that the tiny waif I met at 221b has so much power in this technological age.

"Who's Tiger?" Geoff says suddenly interested in this master criminal.

"A ten year old boy with a Dell laptop." I deadpan. Geoff mutters something and raises his eyebrows. His phone beeps. He looks at it. "Billy will be here in twenty five minutes."

"That should be fine." Sherlock says passing me his cup to refill with tea. "He said they had some kind of advanced system but he's bypassed it."

"Do I even want to know how?" Geoff asks rubbing his hands through his hair and looking at me. I shake my head.

"I don't think we'd understand it if he explained it. It's surreal, he's a little boy but he's got the attitude of someone out of the Matrix." Sherlock laughs and nods and Geoff shakes his head in defeat.

"We should go back down to my lab." Sherlock gets up and pulls down his jacket.

"Our room." I correct and he grins.

"Let me get some clothes on," Geoff says looking at our pyjamas. "I'll meet you down there when I've collected Billy."

Twenty minutes later there's a knock at the door and Geoff arrives with Billy Pickin. He's fresh faced with spiky dark hair and I can tell he's genuinely thrilled to be involved in what for him must be the most excitement he's had in ages.

"John, Dr John Watson, Billy Pickin," Geoff introduces us and we shake hands. I am struck by the warmth of Billy's smile and the way he holds himself considering his young age. He looks past me. "And this is..." but Billy is already halfway across the floor. He puts out his hand, oblivious to Sherlock's bizarre costume of striped pyjama bottoms and suit jacket and grins. Sherlock smiles back.

"Sherlock Holmes." He says reverentially. I look at Geoff who shakes his head.

"You know me? Have we met? No, I don't think we have. I would remember." Sherlock answers his own question and Billy's grin widens.

"No, we've not met but... well I used your paper on the properties of London soil deposits to pass my finals at university and I've followed your website ever since. Fascinating stuff with those nuns and the cars, how did you...? Anyway, then when Inspector Lestrade turned up I remembered that McKay had mentioned some civilian poking their nose in and, well I couldn't help wondering and so..." He spreads his hands and looks at Sherlock like he's not sure if he should have revealed his fanboy status. Sherlock looks at him seriously and Billy shrinks back a little.

"And you're the person who split the tetrodotoxin?" he asks, his face expressionless. Billy just nods, he looks scared now. Sherlock purses his lips. There is a silence which stretches out as Sherlock seems to be thinking.

"That was a good idea, the splitting. Very inventive." He says quietly and then turns to the travel lab before him. Billy looks at us and I try to give him an encouraging smile. Sherlock starts to tinker with test tubes and chemicals, sloshing things about and sniffing things. He turns to Billy who is looking at him apprehensively.

"I have discovered that the tetrodotoxin is synthetic venom." He says without giving away his thoughts on this fact. Billy frowns.

"What? It is? How did you find that out? Did you combine it with a separating suspension?" he asks incredulously. Sherlock turns to him, his eyes glittering with delight.

"No, I combined it with Maleic hydrazid." We watch the impact of this news spread across Billy's face like ripples on a pond. Disbelief, realisation and awe follow each other across his features.

"What? But how did you...? Wow! Show me!" He says enthusiastically and rolls up his sleeves. Sherlock puts on a pair of latex gloves and, without looking at Billy, passes him an identical pair. Sherlock is smiling broadly as he takes a thin tube out of the drinks fridge which he had us move to the table top. He hands it to Billy like it's a precious jewel. Billy receives it in very much the same manner.

"Oh my god. It is too! Christ, I never even thought about... but I don't have any hydrazid, not allowed." He looks at Sherlock. "And you want me to pretend that this is my discovery? I'm not good enough for this. You'll have to tell me how to do it." He hands the vial back to Sherlock who shakes his head vigorously even though he takes the glass vessel back and puts it in the fridge.

"No, Billy, I am going to guide you to make this discovery yourself. That way it will sound quite real when you tell McKay what you have found." His pale blue eyes have Billy in their glare. Billy blinks.

"But how would I...? I wouldn't have thought to..." he ends, fidgeting with his hands. Sherlock gets hold of his chin and tilts Billy's head up towards him. The gesture is intimate and almost fatherly. It's strange and I've never seen him like this before but I suppose he is a born teacher. He loves to expound, to encourage theories from all of us around him even though they are usually incorrect.

"You knew I had been 'interfering'," Sherlock grins and lets go of his chin. Billy smiles. "So you remembered my case with the driving instructor..."

"And the Trap Door venom!" Billy finishes nodding excitedly. Sherlock nods too.

"So, my next question is, how do you replicate the effects of Maleic hydrazid Billy Pickin?" They turn to the desk, their backs to us still talking excitedly. Geoff looks at me.

"Bloody hell. A fan."

"Another one, let's hope he's not the dangerous kind." I say remembering one of the first cases we all worked on together. Geoff widens his eyes at the memory and nods.

"Drink?" he says pointing to the whisky larva has left in our room. I look at my watch, it's 5.30am, nearly breakfast time.

"Why not?" I say and pour us both a double.

By the time Billy is leaving he and Sherlock are sharing chemistry jokes that neither Geoff nor I understand. It took them about an hour and a half to replicate Sherlock's experiment using only what Billy is allowed to use in his lab.

"How long did it take for the elements to separate once you had them in the fridge?" Billy asks and Sherlock looks at me.

"I'm not sure." Billy stares at Sherlock like he's just said he kills babies, obviously not being careful when timing experiments is a cardinal chemist sin. Sherlock frowns, thinking.

"About thirty minutes?" I offer and Billy looks from Sherlock to me and I smile helpfully.

"Twenty seven minutes and forty five seconds." Sherlock says and I know he's just made the calculation from seeing my watch in the dark. He smiles at me and winks. I sigh, Geoff looks at us both.

"Ok, good. If I go straight to work I can have this on McKay's desk by the time he gets in this morning." Billy picks up his coat. What is it with these people? Doesn't anyone need sleep? Sherlock looks wide awake. He shakes his head.

"Billy, you need to give me until tomorrow morning." He says seriously. Geoff starts to protest but Sherlock holds up one long, white hand. He waves Billy out of the door. "Text Tiger," he says to me throwing me the phone. "We need to get Billy out unseen."

"So, what now?" Geoff asks as he finishes his whisky and puts down the glass when Billy has gone.

"Bed." Sherlock says seriously pointing at me and pointing and Geoff.

"What all three of us? Look Sherlock..." Geoff starts and then realises Sherlock is laughing.

"You two need some sleep. I can manage perfectly well for four days with no sleep, I've proved it. You two, however, are merely mortal and if you're to be of any further use to me you need some sleep. I need to see Laura."

**So, shall I do the next bit from Laura's POV or is that too far? Real advice needed. I don't want to stray too far from Conan Doyle's formula. Do we like Billy? This chapter flowed really well so I am worrying that it's not good.**

**I love my Baker Street Irregulars; hopefully some of us can meet when I go with Verityburns to London next Saturday (27****th****) for the fanmeet. If you're interested in coming please check the LiveJournal Sherlock Community or send me a PM. PrincessNala (stop guessing!) And Peachsilk (I think of her when I write the word cock!) Darmed (sending you good luck and love) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat (it's the Sherlock Holmes walk on later on Saturday, can you come?), Mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (you must be v busy, hope everything's ok) thegeekyprincess (who writes some detailed reviews and is a lovely start to the day) and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal, Dead Air Space, Melissa Ivory( nice girl), staceuo and Sapphykins! Thanks for your help, support and general all round loveliness!**

**Love as always to Reggie for being a sweetheart. **


	15. Tamsyn talks to Laura

Lady Laura Ashton's POV

In my dream Art and I are driving in his Mini. We weave effortlessly through the London traffic and I am just about to remark on how well he's driving, not the usual comment I would be making on Art's skills behind the wheel, but then something is banging and there is a jolt.

When I wake up, panicking from the feeling of something hitting the Mini at speed I realise that I am being shaken awake. The shaking continues until I reluctantly open my eyes. At first nothing makes much sense but then I see the pale blue irises staring at me intently and I recognise Sherlock Holmes.

I close my eyes again. What can he want at this time? I have no idea of the actual time but I am not a woman who likes to be woken up. At all, by anyone. And people usually know this and keep well clear of me until I have had my morning coffee and put my make up on. Sherlock clearly has not had these rules pointed out to him.

Still with my eyes closed I sigh, hoping this will make him go away, even though I know better. The man is tenacious and lots of other adjectives which are not so polite.

"Laura! I need your help!" he says in an exasperated tone, no doubt annoyed again that his companions appear to be fragile humans whereas he is made of thought and action. I keep my eyes closed mutinously. He shakes my arm, I slap his hand away.

"Hey honey, here's some coffee I made for you." Rose's voice is soothing and the smell of coffee wafts enticingly by my prone body. I hitch myself up the bed and don't open my eyes until I am sitting up against the cushions.

Sherlock is sitting on the bed, his long fingers drumming the duvet. I make my mouth a thin line and frown at him as I reach for my coffee. I nod my head to indicate he should explain exactly why the fuck he's waking me up at nearly six o clock. My power of mime must be good because he glances at the clock and opens his mouth.

"I need you to speak to Tamsyn Barker for me." He sounds amused by my disgruntled expression and I drink my coffee and scowl at him. I wonder where john is and if my hair is standing entirely on end. When he doesn't get a response Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes briefly. I deliberately drink down to the bottom of the cup and hold it out for a refill. Rose takes the cup from me and gives it back to me full. I smile at her and it occurs to me that I still haven't spoken to anyone. Good. I let them stew.

Sherlock sighs in exasperation and gets up from the bed and goes to the window. I can see he is thinking, he's doing that thing with his hands and tapping the middle fingers together slightly.

I pull back the duvet and slide out of bed. He turns briefly and I make for the bathroom. He raises his eyebrows.

"Give me twenty minutes." I say and he smiles. Shaking my head I wander to the shower.

Twenty minutes later I'm up and dressed. I make Sherlock wait while I put on my makeup. At first he rolls his eyes and seems to be about to ask why I need to do this before I'm prepared to leave the hotel room but he sees my face and shuts up. Clever boy. After a minute or two he's picking up pots and opening them, poking his finger into eye shadow, painting stripes on eyeliner onto his hand and twisting my lipstick up and down. He doesn't even realise that I've finished until I take the red lipstick in question out of his fingers and put it back into the bag on the table.

"So, where are we meeting Tamsyn?" I ask, looking at my watch. I've gone for a sober look today; if Sherlock needs me to talk to Ms Barker then I don't think she's the sort of woman to be swayed by designer clothes. Tight jeans and boots and a white man's shirt. Sherlock looks up from my make up bag and frowns.

"Cosmetics are entirely fascinating Laura. Did you know this red lipstick is made to replicate the sexual flush which a woman gets before intercourse? And that eyeliner is designed to define a feature which humans associate most with young babies? That large, doe eyed expression of small children which makes them appealing? And then, how interesting that you use it to such a forceful effect." He looks up at me with a frank expression. I'm wondering if he remembers applying my make up for me, knowing that a slip with a brush or a pencil would result in ten lashes with the crop. I smile at him and I feel Mistress Lola making an appearance. Sherlock swallows and smiles. Oh yes, he remembers.

"And, we're meeting Tamsyn when? Where?" I repeat, he shakes his head as though to rid himself of the memory. I grin wider.

"Seven thirty, downstairs in the restaurant. I invited her for breakfast." I frown.

"You did? When did you invite her? Does she know I'm coming?"

"I invited her before you woke up, from your phone, I texted her. And she knows you're coming. I'm not." I arch an eyebrow at him. He flares his nostrils and puts his head down, to all intents and purposes fascinated by the golden tube of my Touche Éclat.

"My phone? You used my phone?"I shake my head and snatch the bag back from him. I sigh. "Ok Sherlock. What do you want me to find out?"

"I'm not entirely sure but she seems the one with the most suspicion about Sebastian's death and I think that, if handled correctly, she might let something important slip."

"And you want Laura to handle her correctly?" Laughs Rose, slipping her hand over my shoulder and squeezing the muscles. Sherlock nods seriously.

"Yes, I think she showed the most empathy with you and would be more likely to speak to you than she would to John or to me." I nod, he's right; Ms Barker didn't seem to have too much time for men.

"Ok. I'm ready. I'll go down there now. Is there anything particular you think you want me to bring up?" he shakes his head.

"Just get her talking, about her friends, about Sebastian. See what comes up and go with your instincts. I know you've got keen intuition Laura, and so you're likely to follow just the right hint." I bite my lip, I know flattery when I hear it but I also know that Ms Barker won't talk to anyone else.

I'm in the restaurant before her and have already ordered coffee by the time she comes in, looking harassed. She sits down at the table and gives me a wry smile.

"God, city traffic! I hate it. I'd rather not be in town if I can help it but with the current circumstances," she grimaces and I smile.

"Thanks for coming to meet me Ms Barker." I begin as the coffee arrives.

"Please, call me Tammy, my friends do and Ms Barker seems so formal." She nods to the waiter to pour her coffee.

"Thanks Tammy, call me Laura." She grins.

"Never quite sure what to call a lady," she shakes her head and I wave the suggestion away and laugh.

For a few moments there is silence while we drink our coffee and eat the croissants the waiter brings over. It's all very companionable and I'm starting to wonder exactly what Sherlock thinks I'll find out from this woman. I watch her finish chewing. She's handsome in a country, outdoorsy sort of way.

"I'm glad you called me Laura, I have been toying with the idea of calling you myself but I couldn't decide what I was going to say if I did." She takes another bite of the pastry. I raise an eyebrow.

"Really? What made you think to call?" I say, hoping it don't come across as too rude. I'm treading a thin line between being interested and coming across as being too interested. I've already got some kind of vibe of attraction from her and I don't want to make things more complicated.

"I have my suspicions Laura, if the truth be told," she says leaning further over the table and looking about her like she expects someone to be lurking in the leafy flower arrangements. I cock my head and urge her to continue. She sighs.

"Look, I don't want you to think I'm being a complete..." she pauses, thinking of the word she wants, hand waving vaguely.

"A bitch?"I offer and she grins. It's an open and honest smile; I don't think Ms Barker is capable of much guile.

"Yes, a bitch I suppose. But, well, there's something wrong with this whole business. Well, obviously there's something wrong, Seb's been murdered, but what I mean is, there's something wrong with what happened. It's not your friend who did this, I can tell you that." If I was a cat my ears would go back. I feel my posture change; feel how my senses sharpen as she says this.

"That's a bold statement Tamsyn. How do you know this?" I sip my coffee, aware that I have to play this carefully, I don't want to push it too much and I want to hear her air her views. What I need is to hear what she says, the words she uses and the words she doesn't use. She sits back in the chair, as though she's distancing herself from what she's about to say.

"Luke and Phillip both had reasons to want Seb out of the way." The sentence sits in the air between us. I am suddenly struck by the situation, a scene right out of a detective novel. How do I get into these things I wonder? Sherlock Holmes is how, I think as I see the lanky elf in question striding through the hotel foyer and gracefully gliding out of the revolving doors.

I realise Tammy is looking at me, expecting a response so I frown, obviously implying she should go on.

"It's true, and, I know it's not a nice thing to say about one's friends but, well, we've all changed so much since university, drifted apart, you know how it is." I nod and smile. I watch Sherlock get into a cab and drive away from the kerb.

"So what makes you say that they wanted him out of the way?" I ask and drag my attention back to the conversation. "I mean, lots of friends drift apart. It doesn't mean they'd resort to murder." I smile and she nods.

"Oh I know and it does seem like an extreme thing to say doesn't it but, well, I suppose the situations become quite extreme really." She sits back and crosses her legs. I realise she is echoing my movements and, just to test the theory I clasp my hands over my knee. She does the same.

"Extreme? In what way?"I ask her.

"Well, take Phillip, you know, the solicitor." I nod. "Well, he really started to fall out with Seb once Seb came out. I mean, we all knew really, Jenny and I always thought something was going on between him and Luke but we never knew for certain. But Phillip, well, he's old fashioned. Doesn't mind what people do as long as they don't make a fuss. And Seb made rather a large fuss." She quirks up her mouth and raises her eyebrows.

"Fuss? How? Gay pride?" I laugh and she laughs too.

"Aren't those things just awful?" She says conspiratorially, this is obviously one of the moments where there are certain clues given as to our sexualities. I nod and laugh. She laughs now and it's relieved and pleased. "I went once but I don't see how I should have to listen to some awful boy band to be a lesbian." I smile. She goes on.

"Anyway, no, Seb wasn't the gay pride sort but he did bring the subject up a lot. You know, inviting boyfriends to dinner and making a fuss when someone said something. And Phillip, well, he's just no good at that. He likes everything to be private, unobtrusive." He sounds like a complete pain in the arse to me but I nod sympathetically.

"And that means he might murder someone?" I try not to sound like this is a leap but I can see from her face that she takes the question as an attack.

"Not by itself no, I don't think Phillip would murder someone for being out and proud." She smiles again and I'm glad I've not alienated her completely. "But when Seb met Thomas, Phillip's oldest nephew, well..." she spreads her hands and pulls a face. "I don't know if anything happened between them Laura, but it certainly seemed that way, at least to Phillip. And then the nephew started acting strangely, all moody and depressive. Not how he was before at all, he's on medication now, shadow of his former self. And I think Phillip blamed Seb." I weigh this up in my mind. I've not met this man and I am trying to remember exactly her facial expressions and her intonation for when I repeat this back to Sherlock.

"Still seems a bit full on..." I being but she interrupts me nodding.

"No, I agree but then something happened last Christmas. We all got together and Seb was being rather an obnoxious drunk, he started to talk about Phillip's nephew. He got really quite graphic, awful conversation actually." she shudders. "Phillip got very angry. He stormed out. I went to calm him down and eventually he came back to dinner. But I've never seem anyone so angry, so bitter." I think about this. She's got a point; sometimes those people who have such a tight lacing on the world are the ones which come apart at the seams. But it's the next bit that makes me wonder.

"And then, later that evening when Luke and I'd gone home the other three were just chatting and having a drink. Seb started to feel sick and went outside. They were gone for a while and Jenny went out to see what was wrong. She found Seb choking on his own vomit and Phillip just watching him. Of course he sprang into action once she arrived but she said she could tell from the look on his face that he had no intention of helping Seb at all." she sits back and gauges my reaction. I can't help but look shocked. It's a dreadful picture and it makes me wonder what she has on the other man if she still suspects him next to this revelation.

"Ok, that is extreme, and I think you're quite right to be worried Tammy. Have you shared your ideas with Jenny?" Her mouth is a thin line.

"Oh, Jenny's a mess. Keeps crying, I can't get a conversation worth having out of her. I mean, it's as total nightmare that she was in Edinburgh when he died and not me. She just isn't dealing with it very well. She keeps saying she should have gone over but she didn't." She sniffs and tries to be more sympathetic. "Well, Jenny's always had this massive crush on Seb. So I suppose she was pretty disheartened when she found out he was gay. But it never seemed to bother her. They joked that she was his 'safety wife', you know," she explains looking at me to check I understand the expression.

"So, if they hadn't met anyone by the time they were..." I gesture for her to finish the sentence.

"Thirty five, then they would marry each other. I think it was a good idea actually. They got on really well. Shared a flat for a while, until he met Art. And, of course, then it all changed. Seb got very obsessed." I nod, I remember this. The phone calls at all hours, the turning up at parties, drunk, threatening and then pleading.

"Anyway, I haven't spoken to Jenny about it. She's all over the place. But Luke's not even acting upset." She looks at me as though this is significant. I shrug.

"No tears, nothing. He sat at the reading of the will and never said a word. I know that Seb was making life hard for him with the new boyfriend on the scene." I rack my brains for the names that Sherlock has briefed me with as I got ready this morning.

"Mark?" I ask and she nods.

"Hmm. Mark. Not a nice man. He's another one who I think won't be upset that Sebastian's not about to be in his way anymore." I've been told this, the possessive older man. But he didn't seem like a suspect to Sherlock.

"And Luke? He'd kill Seb?" She stops for a moment and I can see her wondering if she's going too far with her theories.

"Well, Luke owes Mark lots of money. Luke lost a _lot_ of money in the recession, he was buying and renovating houses and was hoping to make a fortune on a small castle up in the highlands. But now no one's interested and it's stuck up there, half finished and getting ravaged by the weather. Mark bailed him out but he asked Seb first. "

"And Seb refused?" I drink my now cold coffee but I need to mask my expression, this seems like a motive to me.

"Yes, none of us know why, we all expected him to give Luke the money and I guess Luke did too. Anyway asking Mark wasn't the best thing Luke could do."

"Is Mark holding it over him?" She nods and widens her eyes.

"They've had some pretty significant rows. And Mark's not averse to some violent behaviour when he's provoked. He was livid when Luke asked Seb first. And I think Seb made something of it when he went to Luke and Mark's civil partnership last summer."

"Seb sounds like a blast at parties." I laugh and she laughs too.

"Well, it was always interesting. It was ok 'til he was drunk. Then he started ranting, telling his home truths. He was pretty relentless."

"So you really think one of them could have murdered Seb?" I ask her seriously, leaning forward so I can watch her expression as she answers.

"One of them," she looks me in the eye. "Or both of them."

**So, this was written on the train to London to meet Verityburns and hopefully some more of you at the Sherlock fanmeet! I started writing Laura POV and it felt ok. What do you think?**

**Thanks have to go to the Baker Street Irregulars. You lot are such a brilliant bunch of people. You help me out so muh with mywriting snd give the best feedback ever. I love you. ; PrincessNala (still guessing probably...) And Peachsilk (thank you for all your help), Verityburns (thanks for you ace stories. I'm excited to be finally be getting together!) Darmed (sending you good luck and love) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat (maybe see you tomorrow?) Mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild!, Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (nice to have you back with us, I missed you.) thegeekyprincess (you area total gem and I value your opinions) and Flabagash and new girls regrette rien, afrieal, Dead Air Space, Melissa Ivory, staceuo (we'll have a drink for you) and Sapphykins! Thanks for your help, support and general all round loveliness!**

**Love to Reggie for being one of my favourite girls and looking after the other one. **


	16. Sherlock's return

Dr John Watson's POV

I wake up not sure what has shaken me from my sleep but then I see the long stripe of light slicing though the gap in the curtains and realise that it is full day. At first I think I am back home, at 221b and it takes a minute until it sinks in that I am still in the hotel room in Edinburgh.

I lie there with my eyes closed and feel consciousness seeping back into my brain. It's one of my favourite things and not something I get much chance to do living and sleeping with Sherlock. Mornings tend to be active, rushed affairs and I relish the moment of quiet contemplation.

But my bladder is full and it calls me to get up and admit the day. I pull back the curtains as I go, sharp, bright spring sunshine streams through the window and I look at the clock on the nightstand as I go. It is 12.30.

I wander into the living area of our suite when I am finished in the bathroom, feeling much better for an empty bladder, clean teeth and hair dunked under the shower. There is no sign of Sherlock and so I decide to go to Laura and Rose's room and see if I can find someone there. The impact of Sherlock's discovery about the puffer fish poison is just beginning to filter into my thoughts.

At the hotel room I find Laura and Rose sitting about reading magazines. They look bored out of their minds and Rose's face lights up as she sees that it is me at the door, which is nice.

"Hi, John, have you seen Sherlock?"Laura asks me as I was about to ask her. I shake my head. She puts down her magazine. "I wonder where he's gone?" she says distractedly. I frown.

"I thought he was with you? Didn't he want you to do something for him?" she nods and stretches.

"Yes, but that was ages ago. He wanted me to talk to Tamsyn Barker. And I did that and then came back here but he was still out." She sees me frown again as I sit next to her and glance at her magazine. It has a cover of a girl in a red and black latex outfit. "I saw him go out when I was downstairs with Tamsyn. No idea where he went." She answers my unspoken question.

"What did Tamsyn tell you?" Laura pulls a face.

"I'm not sure how reliable her feelings are. She seems a bit, well, melodramatic." I raise an eyebrow.

"I got the impression that Sherlock was more interested in something other than her theories. " Rose says thoughtfully, sitting down opposite us and flicking her long blonde hair out of the way. "You know, not so much the main point of the conversation but the other stuff." Laura nods.

"Yes, I know what you mean. It's the little things from which he makes the big deductions."I say, quoting what I have heard him say on more than one occasion.

"Ok, so..." Laura's glance slides sideways as she tries to remember. "She said that Jennifer's a mess. That she and Seb were going to marry one day if they'd not met anyone else, that Seb was a pain when he'd had a drink..."

"Get married? Really?" I shake my head slightly, I am surprised to hear this, maybe even a little annoyed and I am just questioning this feeling, is it jealousy? Envy? When Laura says something that might have got past me if I hadn't just had a good few hours sleep.

"Yeah, married. You know that thing that people in 'chick lit' do? If none of them meet anyone then they marry their gay best friend." She pulls a face. "I think Tamsyn's quite right that it's shame she wasn't the one in London when Sebastian died. I think she'd have been much more use in the situation than Jennifer. She seems a bit wet to me."

Ok, I register that part of me bristles at Laura's blunt description of the woman with whom I have a strange fascination and I am just wondering about the rest of the sentence when Sherlock bursts though the door.

"John! Marvellous! You look much better." He strides into the room and strips off his coat and scarf and throws himself into a chair. He stays in this pose for a fleeting moment, head back over one arm of the chair, supported by his hands and legs flicked out over the other arm. Then he lets out a long sigh and sits forward sharply, elbows on his knees and long fingers steepled under his chin, tapping gently against each other. He looks alive, rejuvenated.

"Laura, what did you discover?" Laura obediently recounts Tamsyn's theories. I am mildly surprised by her ideas that Sebastian might have been killed by his friends. Sherlock's face is impassive, still. I look at him and wonder what he's thinking. He doesn't even nod as Laura explains about the money that Luke Jennings borrowed. "Anything else?" he asks in a sharp tone as she finishes her story, obviously dredging her memory for any other idea. She shakes her head. He sits back in the pose of before. Eyes closed and biting the side of his mouth as he thinks.

The bright light plays over his dark hair and throws his features into sharp relief. I watch the buttons on his jacket rise and fall as he breathes from his stomach and I find myself imagining the soft skin of his belly, those pale hairs trailing down into his waistband. I swallow. We have to find some time for ourselves in all this mess. Last night has only whetted my appetite.

"What did you find out then?" Laura sounds arch and Sherlock opens one eye and regards her seriously. He swings those long legs back and jumps up.

"This!" he waves a small plastic bag which looks like it's filled with white powder. I look at him

Waiting for his denouement, I know I won't have to wait long, he loves an audience. "The synthetic Teterodotoxine! It's made in lab in Germany. Doesn't explain how it was brought here or how it ended up in Mr. Faulkes' system but we know something more."

"How did you find that out?" I ask him, knowing it is my cue. He smiles that slow shark smile. I get the impression that my compliance in this script turns him on.

"Excellent question John. It just happens that a friend of mine from university has a lab in Edinburgh. He runs the company now but he started as the chemist. They develop drugs for pain relief and I knew that he had enough experience with neurotoxins to be able to figure out where this came from. He was very pleased to have something interesting to do for once. Came down to the lab with me and we worked it out. It's from a dealer in Germany. One of the only places equipped to make this stuff. Very clever, very impressive." He looks smug and sits back down. There is a silence between us and I try to remember what it was it that Laura was saying when he came in. What was it that grabbed my attention and stuck out as being somehow wrong?

"What did you say about Tamsyn not being in Edinburgh when Sebastian died?" I ask Laura, frowning as I try to conjure back the thought. She twists her mouth.

"Er, not much. She said she wished it had been her that was here when Seb died and not Jennifer because Jennifer's been pretty useless. A cruel but, in my opinion, accurate assessment of the situation." Laura smiles. Sherlock's head whirls to Laura, his hair falls over his eye and he brushes it back impatiently. I rush to get out the sentence before he speaks, this deduction is mine.

"Jennifer was here when he died? But she said she came up the next day!" I look at Sherlock who is nodding.

"Good John, although I am surprised that you remembered such a detail with the way you were mooning over that woman." he says dryly, raising an eyebrow. I sigh and roll my eyes and he grins. "She did say that she came up when she heard the news. So, would Tamsyn be wrong in her recollection?" He's out of the chair again and pacing. I watch the sunlight capture and release him as he strides before the long windows. "Unlikely, it's only a few days ago and hardly a complex fact. So, would Jennifer Samuels lie to us about when she got to Edinburgh? About where she was when Faulkes died?" He spins and does a little jump, claps his hands and grins so hard his head might split open.

"Brilliant! JUST what I needed to know. Oh god, I am so bloody clever! You do know that, don't you?" He casts a searching look over our faces, we nod obediently, he grins wider. "I knew it!" he doesn't explain what he knew but even we can work it out. Jennifer Samuels has more to do with the murder of Sebastian Faulkes than we had previously thought.

An hour later and I still can't make this scenario work for me. Something in my gut makes me just fail to believe that Jennifer could be anything to do with the murder. The nearest I can get is that she's innocently caught up in the situation. Maybe she knows who did and can't tell? It would explain her apparent grief. Sherlock's tapping on the laptop; he's spent the last hour just tapping. Laura's gone to get changed and has announced that she and Rose are going shopping. I think she just needs to get out of this tense atmosphere. I know how she feels.

The two of them leave and I watch Sherlock tapping and how his pulse is jumping in his jugular vein. Geoff must still be asleep and I'm wondering if I should go back to bed myself. Suddenly Sherlock slaps down the laptop lid and looks at me.

"Right, nothing else to do now but wait. I have to think about the significance of this. Surely if Jennifer came to the hotel the night of the murder there'd be evidence? I mean, we had to turn off the CCTV to get Billy Pickin in... oh. Oh!" He jumps up, almost dislodging the laptop onto the floor, I save it with a hand but he doesn't even notice. He is nodding to himself slowly. Then he turns to me and smiles a menacing grin.

"I can't do anything else until Lestrade gets out of bed. And I need to do some percolating of these latest events. Want to take me to bed?"He arches an eyebrow and I am out of my seat in second. He laughs. "Good. Maybe we can have a go with that paddle again." He says suavely and turns for the door.

"My turn this time."I say and I watch his shoulders shake as he chuckles.

Back at our hotel room I stop him in the doorway and kiss him. His breathing is sharp and the feel of his lips on mine sends a tremor of lust tingling through me.

"Look, I've not done this before so you'll have to let me know how it goes. Just tell me what's going on with you. Right?" He nods and kisses me again, those long fingers twine in my short hair as he angles my head to probe my mouth with his tongue. I feel my heart thud in my chest.

I know the key to this working is to keep checking in with him, to keep on asking how he feels, making sure he is still in the game. I also know that just whipping out the paddle and thrashing him is not going to be erotic despite what Laura said about how much he enjoys it. I have a moment's panic and then remember something Laura suggested to me back when we staged our kidnapping.

Sherlock is walking to the bedroom, undoing his jacket as he goes. I touch his arm as he begins to take it off. I shake my head, he looks at me and raises an eyebrow. I propel him to the bedroom.

Once there I take the complimentary hotel eye mask and move towards him. He bows his head so I can fasten the elasticated mask over his eyes. I look at him as he stands there, his chest heaving with the tension of the situation.

"Now, take off your clothes and fold them into a neat pile beside you on the floor. No wobbling, no untidiness because each wrong move will earn you a stroke with the paddle." As I say this I walk to the drawer and get out my weapon of choice.

Sherlock bites his lip and then seems to make a decision. From the set of his mouth he has decided to take this very seriously. I watch him shrug off his jacket, those lithe muscles moving under his shirt. He folds it and bends down, both feet flat on the floor and not even a hint of a lean. I smile. I knew he'd be good at this. I even suspect that Laura might have done this with him before.

He kicks off one shoe and then the other. His feet wriggle inside his black socks. Then he unbuttons his shirt, pulling it from the waistband of his trousers as he reaches the bottom buttons. The shirt is removed and I drink in the sight of that pale skin as he folds it and feels on the ground before placing it on top of the folded jacket.

As his fingers move to his waistband I decide that this is far too easy for him. I take a step forward and caress his now hard cock through the thin material of his trousers. He gasps and shudders, putting one foot back to steady himself like a gymnast on a messy landing.

"That's one stroke." I murmur as I squeeze his hard flesh tightly. He is panting, almost whimpering as he tries to stay in control of his body but I can feel the tiny tremors of his body as he fights the thrusting which his hips long to follow. I take away my hand and chuckle at the rush of feelings which chase across his face. Disappointment, lust and amusement.

"That's cheating." He rumbles. I grin.

"And talking back is another stroke Sherlock. Now, trousers please." He shakes his head, grinning wryly as he moves his fingers back to the zip of his trousers. I listen to it being pulled down and relish the gasp he makes as the rough movement skims his erection. His trousers, no longer held by the zip fall down his slim hips and pool about his ankles. He steps out of them carefully and bends to pick them up. I move behind his and run a hand over his buttocks; sliding my fingers down the cleft between them and making him wobble forwards. He hisses in his breath, grunts in his throat a little.

"Three." I say and probe through the fabric of his shorts, eliciting another grunt from his lips but no more wobbling. His self control is remarkable.

When I walk back to the front of him I can see the damp patch of his arousal spreading across the pale material of his shorts. His hard cock strains against the fabric and I can barely wait to touch him, to fuck him and, once again I wonder if all Dominants feel this, this cut to the chase.

He pulls down his shorts teasingly, one hip and then the other, only slipping the elasticated waistband over his cock at the last minute. I watch as he is released from the fabric, how his cock bobs slightly with the weight of blood pulsing through it.

At last he stands naked. His clothes in a neat pile like a parody of a squaddie at kit inspection. I smirk to myself as I realise this is an entirely different sort of kit inspection.

"Not bad Sherlock." I say. "That's three." He smiles smugly. I feel my cock uncomfortably hard in my jeans and I am impatient to be inside him. I know that these three strokes will be symbolic and that gives me chance to learn how to use the paddle.

"Go to the end of the bed. Hold the bed rail." I tell him and I watch that panther prowl he does as he obeys, his head down, laser gaze on the floor.

I move him back with one hand on the front of his thighs, until he is at the right angle for my swing. I step back and swipe a practise over the air above his buttocks. I watch him tense as the paddle swishes past him. As I step forward I realise that the bed gives me just the right angle to fuck him when the time is right and I reach for the lube from the nightstand and put it on the floor beside me.

He is waiting, still. I can hear him breathing. I bring back my arm, aiming for the right buttock, that pale flesh inviting the red stain which the stroke will bring. It slaps him hard, he moves forward slightly on his toes and he moans. A full mouthed, erotic moan. I don't expect this response and it fills me with confidence. I rub the hot flesh with my hand and feel him tremble. I decide to try something new.

I reach around him and stroke his hard cock with my hand. He moans again, the sound ends in my name,

"Like that?" I ask in his ear, he nods. "I want to hear you say it. I want you to thank me." There is a pause and I pump him hard with my hand. He is gasping; twisting and his knuckles grip the bedrail and are bleached of blood.

"Thank you John for spanking me with the paddle." Oh my god. If I thought the situation was erotic before then this sentence, said in that upper class growl, completely blows me away. I briefly consider just fucking him hard right now.

"Good." I manage to choke out and I see him twist his mouth in s small smirk.

Again I bring back my arm and the paddle slices the air. This time the left buttock and the thud as it hits his skin is almost drowned by the exhalation and the groan which comes out of him as the paddle makes contact.

"It still feels good." He says, sounding like he's struggling with the words. Changing pace I give him the last slap with the paddle. He jumps as it hits his left buttock again. His legs are trembling and I drop the paddle, I let him listen to me unfasten my belt, unbutton my jeans. I pull them down over my hips, just enough to free my cock from the material of my shorts. I smother myself in lube and run my slippery fingers down the crease of his arse. He shudders and moans as my hands part his buttocks.

I push inside him brutally, my own desire making me cruel and fierce. He pushes back against me and I thrust as he puts back his head and gasps as I feel my cock skim over his prostate. I grab his hair and pull him back to me, one hand on his hip as I take him hard.

"Make yourself come, use your hand; I want to feel you coming for me Sherlock." I tell him, my voice barely above a whisper because the sensation of him around me, squeezing me and tensing against my thrusts is becoming too much.

He lets go of the bed rail with one hand and I feel the shudder through him as his long fingers wrap over his length and start to bring him up to his orgasm. I thrust hard, matching his bucking body with my own movement. We come together, him saying my name in one long growl, I tell him he is beautiful, how good he feels, that he is mine.

I pull out of him gently, stroking my hand down his back and sides as he pants, his head on his hands, now gripping the rail again.

"Thank you." We say it together and then laugh. I prise his fingers from the rail and twine my own in his grasp. I kiss him gently. He is smiling. I pass him a wipe and first, he carefully cleans my body and then gets a new one to clean himself.

There is a loud banging at the door and a voice is shouting. Sherlock stands up and grimaces, pulling on that awful blue robe he insisted on bringing. As he goes to the living room, the voices shout again.

"Mr. Holmes, are you prepared to give an interview about the arrest of Lord Arthur Douglas for the arrest of Sebastian Faulkes? Is it true you and Lord Douglas were lovers?"

**Ok this weekend was great fun! The walk was great, the meeting of other fans was fun and spending time and being able to have a really good talk to VB was fabulous. Hey to Harpyquin! Next time we make sure you have a decent map. I'm blaming VB for having this scene in my head. Oh! And I have the next mystery all planned out. :D**

**As per usual I have to shout out to the Baker Street Irregulars. You lot are such a brilliant bunch of people. You help me out so much with my writing and give the best feedback ever. I love you. ; PrincessNala (still guessing probably...) and Peachsilk (is a gem), Verityburns (thanks for a great weekend and lots of new ideas!) Darmed (sending you good luck and love) Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat ,Mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild! and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (hope you get time to catch the rest up soon.) thegeekyprincess (VB thinks we are in league to make her write cocks :D ) and Flabagash and new girls regretted rien, afrieal, Dead Air Space, Melissa Ivory, staceuo (funny to read your reviews with VB) and Sapphykins! Thanks for your help, support and general all round loveliness!**

**Love to Reggie for being one of my favourite girls and looking after the other one. **


	17. Questioning

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

The shouting gets louder as I get nearer to Sherlock and John's room so I slow down, not wanting to get entangled with Art's dad again. This doesn't sound like him though, his voice is deep, cut crystal compared with this plastic tumbler which is bellowing out questions which seem to concern Sherlock and Art and the question of them shagging. What the fuck, as I believe the younger generations like to say.

I put my head round the door and there's about six of them, flash guns at the ready and recorders poised. There's no way anyone's getting in or out of there at this rate. I sigh. Bloody typical. It was only a matter of time until the press got hold of this.

I've had my share of press harassment in my time at Scotland Yard and I have some tricks up my sleeve. I go back down one floor and ring a number on my phone.

"Spencer? It's Lestrade. Oh yeah, hi. Ok, thanks, but got a little problem. Do you know who's covering the Douglas murder case in Edinburgh? Really? I didn't know he was still up in Scotland. Do us a favour eh? Give him a ring now and tell him that Douglas is going to be released in about ten minutes. Yeah. That ok? Would I lie to you Spencer? Right. Thanks." I end the call and tiptoe back upstairs.

It's about a minute and half until one of them gets a phone call. He moves away from the group, shouting to be heard over the baying for blood. Then he slips the phone into his pocket and makes his way stealthily down the corridor, in the opposite direction from me. Like some kind of hunting animal the rest of the pack spot his movements and shout after him. He doesn't reply and so they give chase. A few seconds later there is the sound of pounding feet and raised voices as they race to catch the latest scoop. I smile.

When Sherlock opens the door it's like he expects a trap. Then he sees it's only me and he smiles. He looks much better than he did this morning when I left him. His eyes are shining and there's a distinct blush to his cheeks. Then John comes out of the bedroom and I figure out why they both look so well. I am happy for them, honestly I am, but it's like a blow to the stomach when I think about Art, still in custody despite the fact we have the evidence to get him out.

"When's Billy going to tell McKay about the poison?" I ask, hoping my voice isn't too brusque. Sherlock bites his lip.

"Soon, hopefully. I need to see those CCTV tapes. I was hoping you and John might be able to get them?" he looks at John and I hopefully.

"Why us?" John says, pulling his jumper over his head so that his hair sticks up on end and he has to flatten it with his hand. Sherlock throws himself onto the sofa and puts his feet on the arm at the bottom, crossing his ankles.

"Because you both have experience with getting things from people and because I have to get in touch with Billy Pickin." John nods and looks at me.

"Ok, you want the tapes. Will it be tapes Sherlock? Didn't Tiger say this system is state of the art?" Sherlock frowns and picks up the phone which is lying on the coffee table. His long fingers strike the small keys so hard I almost feel sorry for them.

"Tiger, Sherlock. Yes. Surveillance footage in this hotel. What format will it be on? Right. Fine. Thanks. Yes, usual account number? Fine." He looks at us both. "Tiger says disc. You need the disc from the night of the murder."

"McKay will have it." I say, sitting in the chair opposite him and rubbing my hands over my face. "That's what I'd do." Sherlock's eyes swivel to me, he doesn't move his head.

"Discs can be reproduced. It's not feasible that McKay has the only copy. It must be on their central hard drive too. I need to see it."

"And while we do this, you're going to speak to Billy and get Art released?" he looks me in the eye.

"Yes Geoff that's exactly what I am going to do. Although I will have to be particularly manipulative to avoid the tabloid press who are now on their way to the Borders and Lothian station." I frown, how did he..? "I saw them and heard them. Nice work Geoff but I hope they give us enough time to get this sorted out." He grins.

"Right, come on." John has his jacket on and he looks pretty determined.

Dr John Watson's POV

As we go downstairs I watch Geoff's jaw clenching and realise how hard this is for him. I put out my hand and touch his elbow, he looks at me and, even though I know he's been asleep for most of the day, he still looks knackered.

"How did you get rid of the blokes from the tabloids?" I ask and he explains his contact in the office of one of the awful Sunday papers and how this guy owes him for something, but he doesn't say what the debt is about so I don't ask him.

"How do you want to do this?" He asks me, smiling as he acknowledges my gesture of support. "Do you want to be good cop or bad cop?"His grin widens and I shake my head and chuckle.

"Whatever suits you best. How do you feel?" I consider this for a moment.

"I think you've got the edge on bad cop." I say shrugging, "I mean, you're a cop and, well, you've got a lot to be angry about right now." His face changes and he nods grimly.

"Yeah ok, I see your point." He mumbles. We walk in silence for a bit, jogging down the stairs, unwilling to take the lift in case of lingering press men. "Did you try the paddle again yet?" He asks me, taking me by complete surprise. I stop on the stairs and he turns to look at me, smiling cheekily.

"Er, yeah, I had a go." I say tipping my head and feeling a bit embarrassed but wanting to be honest with him. Geoff is the only person who is in a similar position to me. New at this and wanting to try it, although I have suspicion he finds it much easier than I do. He doesn't have the history I have. He nods once, like he gets my meaning.

"Good for you John. We really should sit down sometime and have a talk about this. It'd be good to speak to someone else who hasn't got a clue." I chuckle at his description of me and mock frown. He laughs. "Hey, you know what I mean. God, did you ever imagine it John? The situations we're both in? You with Sherlock, me with Art? If you'd said to me that night with the pink suitcase thing..." He smirks and shakes his head.

"That we were both going to end up with men?" I return his grin and he chuckles.

"And the rest." I nod and he looks at me and we both laugh.

"Madness." I say as we reach the foyer.

"Lunacy." He agrees.

The foyer's busy and we wait for a while until reception is free. Geoff watches the door and I can see he's worrying about the press coming back once they realise he's sent them in the wrong direction. We're milling about by the door of the restaurant as Laura and Rose come back in. Rose is carrying a few shopping bags but Laura has about twenty of them, then we see the cab driver bringing the rest inside.

"Need a hand girls?" Geoff asks as they spot us and Laura raises a laden down hand to wave.

"Thanks!" She passes him an armful and I wave to the porter who is just going by with a wheeled trolley for luggage. He blanches as he sees me gesturing but I wave him over. He looks like he was just going on his break and is desperate to fob us off and escape but Geoff isn't having any of it.

"Hey!" Geoff's London accent is abrupt as he points to the porter who is trying to slip away. "Oi! Give us a lift with these eh?" We see the porter's shoulders sag as he wheels the trolley back our way across the plush carpeting. He helps us load the trolley with the shopping and starts to wheel it to the lift when he catches sight of another porter, a younger, keener looking chap. Our man passes the trolley to his replacement and begins to walk quickly away from us, leaving the new porter to push the luggage to the lift with Laura and Rose.

I see Geoff glance back to the reception desk where the blonde, sleek woman manning the phones and the computer is still dealing with the old ladies on the hen night who seem to have a problem with a room. When he sees that we're likely to be down here for a while if we wait he turns to the weasely porter who is now quickening his pace and heading for a door at the back of the foyer. I make the assessment for him. We have much more chance of getting what we want out of that porter, his whole demeanour showing lack of self worth which will be easier to manipulate, than we have out of the sophisticated woman on reception. With only a glance between us to communicate this Geoff and I head off after the porter.

He is nearly at the door when he spots us moving towards him and he almost bolts and runs. He seems very keen for his break and something about his manner tells me he'd rather do anything than talk to us. For some reason this makes both of us far more eager to talk to him.

Geoff's foot is in the door just as it slams behind the thin figure of the retreating man and we slip into the staff corridor and follow the footsteps which are now breaking into an unashamed run. I look at Geoff and he frowns before picking up his pace. I start to jog but then the sensation of a chase is so strong that in the end I am pelting down the corridor and round a corner just in time to see the porter disappear through a grey doorway. I tear after him, hearing and feeling Geoff running after me.

I pull open the door and am on another long, grey corridor. I look at Geoff who arrives beside me, panting and looking at me quizzically.

"What the fuck?" He mouths and I nod. Yeah, dead right. What the fuck? Why is this guy running away from us? It seems a bit extreme for someone who just wants a quiet fag break. And then it hits me, one - that this is the man who I have accosted in the foyer on a number of occasion, the one who has said some very strange things which made absolutely no sense at the time and two - I can smell cigarette smoke. Geoff smells it too and he points to a door on his right. I almost expect him to get out a gun as he sidles to the door and grips the handle. Instead he jerks his head to me and indicates he is going to open the door and I should be ready to go through it. I nod.

He opens the door, letting go of it as it swings open so that it bangs back and I run though. The pale porter is leaning against the brick wall of an alley and smoking his fag like it's the last thing he'll ever do. When he sees me he throws it down and makes like he's going to run but I grab his arm tightly, he winces.

"Oi! Fucking hell! Let go of me! What the hell do you think you're..." His voice fades out when he sees Geoff's face and I don't blame him. Geoff looks like a bomb ticking its way through its countdown. Right now his red digital display is on 00.02 seconds.

"Why are you running?" Geoff says in quiet voice. "We just wanted to talk about you about some CCTV footage, didn't we?" He cocks his head to me and it's that Velociraptor expression I've seen on Sherlock's face so often. No wonder those two work so well together. Geoff resembles a mean fighting dog, not old enough to retire but old enough to know how to win every time. In contrast the porter is a ratty looking mongrel. He backs away from Geoff and that brings him nearer to me. His first mistake.

I grab his arm and he turns to me, almost as though he is surprised I am there. I smile.

"Why did you run? We just wanted to talk to you." I say gently but I know that he is not about to calm down no matter how soothing I am. "Inspector Lestrade and I just wanted a chat." At the mention of Geoff's rank the guy goes a sickly yellow shade. I pull his arm and we drag him back into the building. He can't run far in here. I push him back against the wall and lean next to him, effectively blocking off his escape route and managing to menace him without doing very much.

"W...what do you want?" he stutters, eyes darting from me to Geoff and back again. Geoff is in his face, lips a thin angry line.

"Like I said, we just wanted to see some CCTV footage." Geoff raises his eyebrows and turns down his mouth in a quick expression like it's no big deal. The porter swallows, I can see his blood pumping at his neck, he's nervous, more than he should be.

"Footage? Why would I have that? What footage anyway?" He stands up slightly, shifting his shoulders and looking Geoff more directly in the eye. Geoff just stares at him, infinitesimally his eyes flick to me. I take the cue.

"Footage from the night Sebastian Faulkes was murdered. And we thought you might be able to help us because we know you work reception sometimes when the hotel's busy. You must know where they keep the discs, the central hard drive." I can almost see the bloke's brain working. It's like the top of his head is transparent and inside all his crafty little, weasely thoughts are rushing about, bumping into one another and trying to figure out how to escape from this line of questioning. I put my hand on his arm and squeeze, persuading him to focus. We're not going to get anywhere at this rate. I look at Geoff for permission to try something out; he catches my glance and raises an eyebrow.

"Want me to hurt him Inspector?" I say in a dark voice I borrow from some of the soldiers I have worked with over the years. People like Jamie McMurray and Freddy Terry. I cock my head and lick my lips. Geoff smiles a thin, cold smile. The porter whimpers. Geoff shrugs.

"If you like John." He shrugs insouciantly. The porter whimpers again, makes a very swift decision and speaks.

"Alright, alright! I can't show you the disc, I can't!" I pull back my arm, hand in a blade posture, not sure if I'm supposed to follow through with this blow or whether we're just bluffing because this is technically assault. Not that Geoff looks like he cares. His hand comes out and he holds my hand.

"Why? Why can't you show us the disc? Who's got it? Where is it?" The porter slumps in my grasp, it's all I can do to keep him on his feet. I lower my arm.

"There isn't a fucking disc!" He says desperately, nearly crying. He bring up his hand to his face and I tense, ready to strike him if he makes a move against us but he just runs his hand over his face. He's a broken man. But what has broken him?

"Course there's a disc! Stop fucking with us or I'm going to let John hurt you." Geoff sounds cold and hard. His face is something I have not seen before. If this is an act it's a bloody good one. The porter is crying now, weedy sobs shake his thin frame and he sniffs disgustingly. I take away my supporting arm and he almost falls over. He rights himself and looks up at Geoff.

"There isn't a disc. I wiped the drive." I glance at Geoff and for a second his mask slips and I can see he's as confused as I am. Wiped the drive? But surely McKay knows this?

"You wiped the...? Oh god. Of course. That's why McKay didn't know where Art was when I went down to reception that night! I wondered why he didn't just check the footage and see that Art stayed in our room! There was no footage for him to check! But why didn't McKay suspect...?" Geoff looks back at the porter, eyes narrowed.

"Because the whole system went down. The phones, the cameras. It was a technical fault they think." The porter is wide open and scared to death.

"Why did you do that?" Geoff growls, the weedy man is shaking, he knows the game is well and truly up.

"She made my do it. She told me that if I didn't she'd tell my boss that I had stolen from a guest." He seems to think that we're going to be even more angry about his petty crime, he opens his mouth to justify his last comment but Geoff cuts him off.

"She? Who? Tamsyn Barker?" The porter looks at him and it's clear from his expression that he's never heard the name.

"Jennifer Samuels?" I ask in whisper, feeling my chest tight and my blood pounding. The porter looks at me, eyes wide with fear and relief of finally being able to tell his story. He nods.

**Ok, so lots of you hates her and it was because of John, but poor John. Let me know what you think of scary Lestrade eh? **

**Thank you to the marvellous Baker Street Irregulars. You lot are such a brilliant bunch of people. You help me out so much with my writing and give the best feedback ever. I love you. ; PrincessNala (you always hated her didn't you?) and Peachsilk (more than ideal), Verityburns (improving my nugget to sauce ratio daily with her fics) Darmed (sending you good luck and love) Clubba Bear, 2cajuman2,Aelfric's cat ,Mrs winny and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (hope you get time to catch the rest up soon.) thegeekyprincess (fellow partner in crime for corrupting VB ) and Flabagash and new girls afrieal, Dead Air Space, Melissa Ivory, staceuo (love your reviews!) and Sapphykins! Thanks for your help, support and general all round loveliness! **

**Love to Reggie for everything. **


	18. Art is innocent, sometimes!

Inspector Geoff Lestrade POV

We leave the porter under no illusion but that he will have to tell all this to McKay as soon as we can work exactly who did this and why they did it. The bloke is sweating and panting and looks like he might have some kind of coronary attack. It serves him bloody well right; my sense of justice is being salved. But not much.

John looks ashen. I'm not sure what the problem is with him but he looks as though the answers we have just got were not the ones he wanted to hear. He doesn't look like he wants to talk about it either. In silence we walk back to the foyer and there's some kind of fuss at the revolving doors and then I hear a voice that I have missed so much in the last twenty four hours that it's timbres an cadences slice through me and I think I might actually cry. It's Art.

That familiar half swagger, half stroll and that cheeky smile is all that exists in that crowded foyer. Oblivious to the press and the cameras and the shouting he walks straight over to me. At the last minute I notice Sherlock is standing next to him. He goes to John and frowns, puts his hand on his shoulder in a concerned manner. Then I kiss Art.

It's stupid and, as I do it I realise what this might do to my career, my friends back home who don't know a thing about the surreal rollercoaster my life has become since I met this man. And, as his lips press against mine and he smiles and laughs, I don't give a flying fuck. The last few hours have been the most nerve wracking of my life and I really don't care what people think. I hear cheering and it's Laura and Rose, clapping and whooping. I laugh, we all do.

Then the press are shouting questions, asking how I feel, how Art feels, who do we suspect, but Laura steps in and tells them, very politely, to go away. There must be something Mistress Lola in her voice because a couple of them actually back off. We dodge our way to the lift, Sherlock's fingers stab the button repeatedly until the lift appears, no doubt scared for its life by this vicious treatment.

"Hello." Art looks around at us all and grins. "Hope this hotel's better than the last one I was in." We laugh and then there is another pause. "So, what do we know?" He looks at Sherlock and then at me. Those dark blue eyes are soft and warm and I can't let myself imagine what would have happened if we'd not been able to get him out of this mess.

I turn to Sherlock aware suddenly that we haven't told him what we know. He holds up a finger and cocks his head.

"When we get to the hotel room." He says gravely. We all look around the lift, wondering if he's referring to the potential bugging of the lift car.

He takes us back to the room he shares with John and orders some sandwiches from reception. I wonder if he speaks to our weasely porter but he doesn't seem to register anything when he telephones so I'm guessing not.

We arrange ourselves about the room, Art and I on the sofa, Laura on a chair and Rose on the arm, John in another armchair and Sherlock pacing by the window, arms folded and frowning. He turns and points a long finger at me.

"Ok, Geoff, go! What do we know about the footage?" I look at John who is looking at the carpet. What is wrong with him? I shrug.

"There isn't any." Sherlock nods like he already knew this and waves his hand in a circular motion like he's telling me to hurry up.

"Right, so, there's no footage because someone," I wave at John to supply the name. He looks up at me and grimaces and then speaks in a monotone.

"Jennifer Samuels." Sherlock looks quickly at John and John looks back at him and twists his mouth. Then Sherlock comes back to me.

"And?" he says sharply.

"And, that's it. This Samuels woman got the porter to turn off the power, not just to the CCTV but the whole network it's on. It must be different than the rest of the lights and things because they didn't go off. McKay knows about it and that's why he was still questioning people when he should have had hard evidence. I don't know why I didn't think of it earlier." I shrug.

"Because you thought McKay was being thorough, he's that kind of man and you assessed that accurately about him. Well done Geoff." He nods and goes back to the pacing, clapping his hands together. John looks even more morose.

"Look, John, you weren't to know that she was involved. She was damned convincing and I only didn't fall for it because, well, because..." Sherlock shakes his head like he's dislodging his next words from a trap in his brain. "Because I was jealous." He looks right at me. "And sulking." He smiles briefly and goes back to the pacing. We all look at John who stands up.

"Art, its bloody brilliant that you're out mate. I'm happy for you, I really am. What Sherlock is referring to, tactful as usual," he smiles a thin smile at the pacing detective, "is that I really trusted Jennifer...Miss Samuels, so this is all a bit of a shock. I'm just going for a bit of a walk. I'm not sure I can stand the gloating." He looks at Sherlock again who seems to be just cottoning on to the fact that John is a bit pissed off with him. Sometimes he has the emotional intelligence of a bread bin. John leaves the room. Sherlock just watches him go. He shakes himself like a dog and then he turns back to the rest of us.

"So," he checks off on his fingers, "Jennifer Samuels got the porter to sabotage the CCTV footage that would reveal the identity of the murderer. The poison was not Puffer Fish but a clever synthetic replica. We have two definite motives for murder and a possible, ropey, third motive." He purses his lips and frowns.

"We know that poison is a woman's method." I add, reminding him of something he said to me when this whole thing had just happened. He nods and the rest of them look at me. "What? I'm an Inspector you know! I do know stuff!" Art laughs and sneaks his hand into mine and squeezes. I smile at him and lean back against him.

"Are we saying that Jennifer Samuels poisoned Sebastian?" Rose asks and the words seem extra harsh in her soft accent. There is a long silence because we all know that this is the obvious leap, the next stepping stone on our path of deduction. Then we look at Sherlock who has his hands on the window and is looking out over the city. He is still and the angle of his arms makes his jacket ride up over his lanky frame. He reminds me of a shark again in his dark pewter suit, muscles highlighted by the soft sheen of the fabric. We can almost hear him thinking. He spins on one heel and is pointing at me again.

"Before you two, celebrate Art's release..." he grins wolfishly and Art laughs. I think I blush. "I want you to try to speak to RN. He knows something about this. And I need to speak to Billy Pickin. Can you phone him and get him to come over? No, better, get him to meet me at the cafe over the road from the station. I'll take John." He turns to Laura and Rose. "Should I go and find him?" It's the first sign of hesitation in him since this game picked up and it reminds me that he still isn't comfortable with relationship things. They both nod.

"Right! That's what we'll do then!" He sound extra chirpy, like he's not really dreading speaking to John, so we all know he is. He claps his hands together like a scout captain directing us to set up camp. I take my phone out of my pocket and it rings. I look up and Sherlock smiles. The display reads 'RN calling'. I press the green button.

"Hi Lestrade, Super here. I've been following events up there and have just realised something that might be important."

"Oh, right Sir," I can feel Art grinning at my use of the word from where he sits next to me on the sofa, I try not to giggle. I think relief is setting in and I feel light headed and silly.

"Yes, well. You see I happen to know Professor Samuels, Jennifer Samuels' father. I didn't realise that she was mixed up in all of this until I saw her father at a...thing I went to last night. He's awfully worried about her, said he'd had some rather emotional phone calls since the death of her friend, she was rather fond you know, perhaps a little too fond if you know what I'm saying." This is stuff we already know, well not that the Super knows her dad, but I still can't see where he's going.

"Ok, yes I get that." I say trying not to sound impatient to get off the phone. The fact is however that I have one more phone call to make and then I have Art all to myself. Impatient doesn't even cover it.

"Yes, yes, well. I thought it might be relevant that Jennifer's always been a little, delicate, mentally. She had some awful episodes at college and was committed to hospital. Her father had her cared for privately at home but I still thought this might be something useful. Have telephoned Inspector McKay obviously but he seems not to be interested. Knew you were there with Holmes and thought this information might be right up his street, and yours of course." He adds hastily and I try not to feel offended.

"Right, yes it might help. Thanks Sir. Right, better go. They've just released Art." There is a chuckle at the end of the line.

"Good, good. Congratulate him from me on his innocence. Not that I doubted it at all. Right, must be off." He hangs up and Sherlock looks at me.

"He knows Miss Samuel's father?" he asks, head cocked, eyebrow raised. I nod.

"How did you..?" he grins.

"When we spoke to her I noticed that she had a peculiar ornament in her lounge. A red lion holding a black crest. Obviously it coordinated with the decor, but it stuck out to me as something I'd seen before. And it was. It's the crest awarded to members of a particular gentlemen's shooting club of which I know RN is a member. This club is for men only so I deduced that she must have a family member who belonged to the club too. I've been waiting for RN to work it out ever since. Good timing though, the club congregated last night for its monthly meeting." He finishes with a sharp nod of his head. I know my mouth is open; it amazes me when he does things like this.

"Right!" he claps his hands again and points."Billy Pickin if you please!" I grin and tap the number out.

"Billy speaking." The voice is wary and I like this boy so much more for knowing that an unknown number makes him so cautious.

"Billy, Geoff Lestrade here. Sherlock wants to speak to you. Have you got a break anytime soon?"

"Oh, right, hi Geoff. Sherlock? Oh right, yes. I get of this shift in about an hour. Do you know what it's about? Hang on." I hear the background noise fade and I guess he's moved to another, more private room.

"I think he needs some help." Sherlock rolls his eyes, tuts and walks to the window where he begins the pacing again. The hotel management are going to have to replace that carpet when he's done.

"Really? Well, yes I can help. Or I can try anyway. Where do I meet him?" Billy sounds excited and I remember how happy he was to be in the presence of his idol last time.

"The cafe over the road?" I suggest.

"Ok, cool. In about an hour, is that ok?" I look at Sherlock.

"Is an hour long enough?" he looks at Laura and she nods, I know they're debating how long it will take for Sherlock to make things right with John.

"Yeah, an hour. Thanks Billy. Thanks for getting Art out." I can hear the smile in Billy's voice.

"No problem Geoff. It's a pleasure working with you people. Tell Sherlock I'll see him in an hour." He rings off. I nod to Sherlock.

"Right, you two can go." He dismisses us just like that. Grinning Art pulls me to my feet and makes a mock salute to Sherlock.

"Yes sir, permission to satisfy basic carnal urges, sir?" he barks out in a martial fashion. Sherlock grins and inclines his head regally.

"Granted." He turns to Laura. We leave. I have never been in such a rush to get to a hotel room in my life.

Dr John Watson's POV

I'm sitting on the stairs between the floor of our hotel room and the floor below. The stripy olive green and brown carpet is making me feel sick but I'm not really seeing it anymore anyway. I don't know what I'm feeling but I'm narrowing it down to disappointment, humiliation and stupidity.

Disappointment that I could have been so wrong about Jennifer. I'm still thinking about her in first name terms and that says it all. I'd even thought, in some kind of fanciful way, if the universe was making some kind of joke, showing me the kind of woman I could have settled down with if I'd not met Sherlock. And now it looks like she's a murderer. Great judgement call there John. Well done.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not unhappy with Sherlock. My life has been changed in a radical and exciting way since I met him. Even before the sex and the other parts of our new relationship, just being his flatmate meant things actually happened in my life. Up until then I'd be bored senseless and too asleep to notice. But I think I was just enjoying the frisson, the thrill of someone finding me attractive.

And this is where the humiliation comes in, I defended her to Sherlock and now he knows just how stupid I have been, how blinded by my ego boost at her attention. He suggested as much when we left her flat and now it turns out he was right. I don't want to think of him laughing at my gullibility, but I can't help it. Even though I know he's not a cruel man I can't help but think of him explaining it all to Geoff and Art, everyone having a good laugh at my expense. What hurts more is that I've always thought I didn't have that sort of pride, you know, the sort that makes blokes hit people when they're proved to be wrong. But it looks like I have and all these emotions, stupidity, humiliation and disappointment with me and with Jennifer are roiling around in my stomach like a wildlife - killing oil slick.

The door opens behind me and I don't even bother to look. The pensioners' hen night have already trooped past, the lift was jammed with reporters apparently, and one of them patted me on the head. It made me want to cry. I just huddle further into the wall and hope I'm unobtrusive.

"John." Sherlock's voice is wary, concerned, there's no hint of cruelty or 'I told you so'. I turn a little and look up at him. He frowns and sits next to me, stretching his legs to the next step because they're too long to fold under him like I have with mine.

I don't say anything because I don't know what to say.

"John, look I'm sorry. This isn't nice is it?" I look at him, nice? He's trying his best but he's still useless at this. "Ok, maybe nice is the wrong word. It's uncomfortable, more so for you because you felt a bond with Miss Samuels." I look at him and nod, conceding a point to him because he's trying so hard.

"I didn't mean to gloat in there. I really didn't." He puts his hands in his hair. I watch the long fingers poke out through the top of his dark curls. He grips his head. "Ok, right." He stands up and walks four steps down so he's at eye level with me. He grabs my hands and makes me look at him. Those pale eyes, almost grey in the dim light of the staircase, bore into me.

"John. I am jealous. I am jealous that you felt attracted to Miss Samuels. I am annoyed because she felt attracted to you and you liked that. I am bloody happy she is probably involved in the death of Sebastian Faulkes. Alright? I'm happy." He sighs and bites his lip. "And this is all because I am incredibly possessive of you. Half the times I want to show you off to everyone and hold a sign saying 'John Watson is my lover!' and half the time I want to lock you in the bedroom and never let you out in case you like someone more than you like me. And I'm not comfortable with that or particularly proud of my feelings but there it is. And if I hurt you because I let those feelings out then I am truly, truly, sorry." He leans in to me and moves to kiss me, his eyes narrow as he tries to judge my mood. I kiss him back and I feel the relief in his body as his shoulders drop.

"Friends?" He asks pulling back and putting out his hand for me to shake. It's like we're back at school and the teacher's making us sort it out became there's a fight. I laugh; he probably doesn't know what else to do. He grins as I shake his hand.

"Sorry," I mumble as he pulls me to my feet. "I didn't mean to be an arse." He smirks.

"You weren't. I think neither of us was ready for Miss Samuels were we? All relationships have a hiccup if one of them is attracted to someone else." I look at him, where did that come from? He catches the look and grins. "That's what Laura said anyway." I laugh and he joins in, twisting his fingers in mine and gripping tightly.

"Let's go and meet Billy Pickin." He says. "We have a bone to pick with a tin of mints."

**Everytime I think we get nearer the next chapter (and the next adventure I am so excited about I might squeal) then something happens and I have to write ti out. Damn and double damn. So, let me know what you think and pray for more snow in cornwall if we want to get this sorted out quickly. Snow days are good for writing.**

**Once again I have to thank the marvellous Baker Street Irregulars. Your enthusiasm, support, guessing and insight have been invaluable.; PrincessNala (still figuring it out?) and Peachsilk (thanks for all your help with the stories and the KMC feeding), Verityburns (I'll get her to write cocks if it kills me) Darmed (sending you good luck and love) Clubba Bear, 2cajuman2,Aelfric's cat ,Mrs winny and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll, thegeekyprincess (never cross this woman, her guessing of the plot has been too, too devious) and Flabagash and new girls afrieal, Dead Air Space, Melissa Ivory (ace reviewer and your concern for John and Lestrade is lovely), staceuo (love you for noticing little things) and Sapphykins! Thanks for your help, support and general all round loveliness! **

**Love to Reggie for everything. **


	19. A Promise and an Experiment

Dr John Watson's POV

We meet Billy in the cafe near the station. It's down a side street and not visible from the main road so I think we're unlikely to meet any of Billy's work colleagues. The place is Victorian, green tiles cover the walls and the door handle is a beautiful brass Art Nouveau curve. It reminds me of Speedy's on Baker St. This in turn makes me think of home. I get out my phone and text Clara.

'Hey. How's it going? We're all fine. JW'. I'm even starting to text like Sherlock, I think as I press send.

Sherlock comes back from the counter with two glass cups of coffee; he sets them down on the green glass topped table and pushes mine towards me.

"What time is it?" He can't be bothered to check his watch and I can't be bothered to comment on this anymore so I just tell him. At that moment Billy walks in. He glances around the cafe and then goes to the counter. A few moments later he sits down beside us in the green vinyl booth and wriggles out of his coat, apologising when he catches me with the edge of a cuff as he flails to escape its clutches.

"Hi, Sherlock, John. Inspector Lestrade said you needed me?" He sips his coffee and looks at us over his cup. Sherlock is pouting sugar from an old fashioned glass dispenser and Billy watches in undisguised horror as more than a quarter of the container ends up in Sherlock's cup. Sherlock stirs the mixture like he's conducting an experiment, sips it, grimaces and adds more sugar. I raise my eyebrows at Billy who mirrors my expression, we grin.

"Did you bring the list of the crime scene evidence?" Sherlock asks Billy who nods and produces a few sheets of paper from the pocket of his coat. He passes them to Sherlock who then ignores us to read the sheets, one long finger skimming down the page like he's searching for something. Billy turns to me.

"So, have you found out anything else? He asks as he drinks his coffee. I've decided to shelve my ill feeling about Jennifer Samuels and chalk it up to experience. I hardly know the woman and, now I've been shaken from my wispy daydream by the incontrovertible evidence that she might be a murderer, I realise that all this business has been an illusion and a trick played by my ego. After all, I think as I watch Sherlock's pale blue eyes filtering through the pages, I do have Sherlock sodding Holmes as a lover. I suppose I shouldn't moan. I look up to Billy and realise he's waiting for a response. I nod.

"Yeah, a bit more anyway. Geoff, sorry Lestrade and I questioned a porter and it turns out that one of the victim's friends has something to do with the fact that there's no CCTV footage of the night of the murder. So..." I spread my hands and Billy gives a low whistle and nods.

"Bloody hell. Sounds well dodgy. So what's he thinking?" He jerks his head to Sherlock who doesn't look up from his list scanning.

"I think he's looking for how the poison was administered." Billy nods slowly and I can see he's running through the list in his mind. His eyes narrow and he stares off into the middle distance. The image of them both sitting and doing some serious thinking is a bit scary. It's like there's Sherlock and mini Sherlock. Not that Billy's smaller than Sherlock in height, well, only a little, but that he isn't quite at Sherlock's intellectual capacity. It occurs to me that Billy wants to impress his hero. I smile to myself, finish my coffee and order three more. Sherlock's is now cold no doubt and he hasn't looked up from the list. Then he does.

He stabs the paper with a finger and Billy and I crane to see what he is pointing at. He moves his finger and holds up the list for us to see.

"Mints!" he says excitedly, "in a tin!" he grins widely and I can't help but laugh at his enthusiasm. Billy looks confused.

"We tested some mints because they were also found in the victim's stomach contents but we didn't find anything." Sherlock purses his lips and frowns for a second.

"Have you still got the mints? And the tin?" he asks. Billy nods.

"I could probably nip and get them?" He says, still not sure why he's offering when, as far as he's concerned, this items been checked off the list. Sherlock nods impatiently.

"We'll wait here. And do you have a Petri dish and some silicone crystals?" Billy nods and stands up, finishing his second coffee and pulling on his jacket.

"Back in a mo." He says as he squeezes out of the booth.

"Meet us back at the hotel." Sherlock says, draining his cup.

"Won't we need to turn off the security cameras?" I ask frowning as I realise that this brief meeting is over. Sherlock shakes his head.

"I think it's too late for that." Billy nods and leaves the cafe. I finish my coffee and look at Sherlock who is gazing out of the window. It's the sort of look he has which means he isn't seeing the Edinburgh streets or the fancy etched swirls on window of the cafe. He's thinking four steps ahead of everyone.

"Why aren't we just handing all this evidence over to McKay?" I ask him, not really expecting a response but it's something I've been thinking for a while. Sherlock's head snaps to me, his eyes are alight and he is smirking.

"Because he didn't know me and he will by the time I am finished!" he whispers excitedly. I sigh.

"You mean, you're solving the entire case now, not just for Art but to prove a point to McKay?" he nods and laces his fingers together, resting his chin on his fists.

"Yep. Well, that and the fact that I am intrigued now. If they checked the mints and it wasn't there then I've got one thing I'd like to try..." but he doesn't end the sentence, he just drifts away again, thinking. I sip my coffee and stop trying to puzzle it out.

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

When we get back to our hotel room it's not the frantic sex reunion I had imagined us having when Art was in custody. I make a cup of tea for us both and we seem content to sit on the sofa and talk quietly.

"How did they treat you? Was it really bad?" I ask him as I pass him the cup. He shakes his head.

"Have we got any biscuits? I haven't had a biscuit in days." I get up and look for biscuits. There are some chocolate digestives left and I give him the packet.

"Perfect." He grins and fishes one out of the packet and dunks it in his tea. After a moment of quiet chewing he replies to my question. "No, they were ok. Well, a couple of them had class issues but I'm used to that. McKay was decent about it all. I don't think any of them really believed I'd killed Seb but I think they had to follow the evidence." I nod, I've been in those situations before, where you don't agree with the evidence but you've nothing else to go on. For the fourth time today I wonder why Sherlock isn't sharing his information with McKay.

"Has dad been making a nuisance of himself?" He asks this in a small voice and I realise we haven't talked about his dad because he's been at the station since the time just after his father showed up.

"No," I shake my head, "there was a moment where we thought he was going to hit Laura, but she threatened him." Art starts to laugh and I laugh too, relief spilling out of both of us as we imagine the scene, not that I have to imagine anything. Laura amazes me; she seems to know no fear. So far I've seen her deal with a pissed of grizzly bear in a kilt, a bunch of rabid press hyenas and Tamsyn Barker. She's a force of nature, no wonder she and Sherlock have an interesting past history.

"That was my main worry, that he was giving you hell while I was stuck in that cell." I can hear the worry in Art's voice.

"Is he always like that? He was going to hit you, without even knowing what was going on? I mean, people just don't do that." I've met some nutters in my time but none like Art's dad, I don't tell him that.

"He's the product of years of aristocratic inbreeding." He sighs and tries to smile.

"What does that make you?" I grin, he smiles and it's more genuine this time.

"Oh no, Mummy's not one of them. She doesn't toe the line, hence all her trips to private hospital casualty rooms." He looks at me; his eyes are shining with held back tears. I hug him fiercely, possessively.

"I'm never going to let anyone hurt you again. I promise." He mumbles something into my shirt but I can't hear him. I can feel his tears soaking through my clothes though. This is not the time for a sexy reunion. I think about police cells, the cold and the smell of them. "Shall I run you a bath?" I ask. He nods into my shoulder and then pulls back, his face streaky with tears.

"Will you come and sit with me? I really missed you Geoff." He kisses me and there's that slow burn that tells me that later, when some of this is put to bed, then we can start that fire again. I take his cup away and pour him a tumbler of whisky and go to find bubble bath.

Dr John Watson's POV

So Billy and Sherlock are messing about with the mint tin. Sherlock's had Billy scraping minute flakes of metal from the outside and the inside of the tin and Sherlock's prodding the wax paper which holds the sweets in place and stops them breaking to millions of pieces. He's also got the box of mints which he was given by Phillip Bannister and they're doing the same thing to that tin too. I am watching them but mainly I am thinking. Thinking about just why Sebastian Faulkes died. Who wanted him dead so badly that they went to all this trouble?

My phone beeps in my pocket and I pull it out and look at the screen. It's a text from Clara.

"Hi John, lots to tell you when you get back, Cx.' With nothing better to do I decide to ferret some information out of Clara.

"Like what? Come on, tell all, Jx" I hold the phone and watch Sherlock and Billy tapping the tin over a white cloth and sniffing at the tiny dust that falls from the tin. I have no idea what they're doing.

"I've met someone. Cx" I feel my eyes widen. Clara's met someone? My instant reaction is to wonder if this means anything to what she has going with Laura and Rose but maybe I'm racing ahead, using my own values to decipher a situation very different from my own. What if the girls were just enjoying an evening of fun, with no relationship strings attached? I can't imagine doing it myself but it's not about me is it? And I'm pleased for Clara, things have been hard for her since Harry and she deserves to be treated better. If she wanted some fun and now has met someone to be serious with then I'm happy for her. I text back.

"Really? Wow! Who? Where? Tell me everything. Jx" I watch as Sherlock points to a solution he is sloshing about in a cone shaped bottle. He indicates for Billy to sniff the mixture, Billy obediently puts his nose over the bottle neck and then starts away, eyes streaming, coughing desperately. Sherlock grins. Billy stops coughing and grins too. Oh god, they're both maniacs.

"She's called Jilly; she works for a TV channel. She's the producer of 'Spectre Inspector'.Cx"

"'Spectre Inspector'? The live ghost hunting programme? Bloody hell! How'd you meet her? Jx"

I idly watch Billy tapping some powder onto the flame of the Bunsen burner, making it whoosh up and nearly take his eyebrows off. He grins at Sherlock who nods at him to carry on. I look nervously at the hotel room ceiling; we are going to be in trouble if there are scorch marks. The two of them huddle over the tarry residue left on the metal dish Billy is holding with the hem of his jumper as neither of them have safety gloves. Their heads are close together and they are whispering excitedly. Then Sherlock stands back and waves Billy imperiously out of the way and Billy hands Sherlock the dish, passing on the charred jumper edge as Sherlock scrapes the black sticky glob of stuff into a test tube. Suddenly I am reminded of a sorcerer and his apprentice.

"I did a garden for her friend's house and got invited to a party there. She's really nice. We'll have to all go out. Tell Sherlock to behave. Cx" I grin, Sherlock and a woman who produces ghost hunting programmes. I can't say we've ever discussed them but I can't imagine his being in favour of things like that. Behaving might be a problem.

"I'll try when do you want to meet up? Jx" Sherlock and Billy are both utterly still and silent, watching some kind of reaction in a test tube. There is a fizzing and a pop, they look at each other, their eyes wide. Billy shakes his head in wonder.

"When will you get back? Jilly's got a show on Sunday night? You could come here and we could watch it together, she'll be at the location. How's it all going anyway? Has he nearly got it all sussed out? Cx". Sherlock's making Billy pack the experiment away. I watch him take a number of things to the bathroom and there's the sound of the toilet flushing and the sink running. Sherlock is writing on a piece of paper, pen flying across the surface.

"I think he just worked it all out. Should be home for Sunday, if not too tired will come over. What time does it start? Jx" Sherlock crosses the room and throws himself down on the sofa beside me, he leans over and kisses me briefly, his tongue flicks out against my lip and I shiver, he grins. He must have solved things, it always turns him on when he proves how clever he is. The phone beeps and I reluctantly pull my face away. He starts to run his hand up my leg.

"11.30. Let me know if you're coming over. Give him my love, Cx". Sherlock's hand moves higher up my leg until he is gripping my calf fiercely. The indentation of his long fingers sends shivers through me and I feel my body starting to respond to the persistent circles he is pressing into my skin. I look up from my phone, into his face and he is watching me intently, seriously. I try to smile but it comes out like a nervous smirk because it's obvious what he's thinking about. His hand moves higher, I catch my breath and Billy comes out of the bathroom, arms laden with lab equipment.

"Well, I think my work here is done!" He grins as he puts the glass and metal instruments down carefully on the table. "John, you're never going to believe..." He begins but Sherlock stands up and hastens him to the door. Billy doesn't seem put out at all, I think he understands that Sherlock is keen to move on, it's just that Billy thinks Sherlock's keen to move on with the investigation of the case, I think it might be the investigation of me. Jesus.

"So, I'll wait for you to let me know when I can 'discover' this and tell McKay right?" Sherlock nods as Billy puts on his coat, one foot already outside on the hotel corridor.

"Thanks for your help." Sherlock says gravely, "you're really a very good scientist. Very intuitive working." Billy looks like he might just expire from pride, Sherlock seems not to notice. He shuts the door and spins on a heel.

"I am really clever." he says, repeating his modest comment from earlier. He is flexing his fingers together, lacing and unlacing them, twisting them and clasping as he walks towards me. I nod, of course he is.

"That was very cunningly hidden but I have just solved the case entirely." He leans over me and I fall back on the sofa.

"Have you...? How...? Who...?" But I can't focus on the questions or their potential answers because Sherlock is pressing his hot mouth against my throat, pulling at the neck of my jumper with fierce hands until I hear the seams give way. He chuckles against my skin.

"The poison was placed in tiny proportions in both the wax paper and the tin surface." I am trying hard to listen but he has pushed my jumper up across my chest and is punctuating his words by flicking his tongue over my nipples. I groan and arch up towards him with my hips. He puts one hand on my thigh and pins me down. He progresses down my body, past my navel.

"So it was meant to kill someone and to leave no trace of where the substance came from in the body." He licks along the sensitive skin over the waistband of my jeans as his fingers unbutton and pull them down my legs. I am hard and eager but my brain is scrambling to keep up with his deductions.

"Someone... oh god... someone meant to kill Sebastian?" I stutter out as he breathes on my responsive flesh through the thin material of my shorts. He presses his nose against the length of me.

"Mmmm." He affirms, the vibrations sending me nearer and nearer to the edge, I am nearly pleading for him to touch me. I try to lean on one elbow, watching his narrowed eyes, flushed skin under those high cheekbones.

"Who? Jennifer?" I try to find my voice and concentrate on the conversation but he pushes me down with one hand flat on my chest and pulls down my shorts with his sharp teeth on the elastic. He breathes on me as he speaks and I writhe.

"No. Not Jennifer. Although she is mixed up in this. Someone else. But I'll have my theories confirmed when you and Geoff interview the chemist upstairs from Phillip Bannister's office." He presses his tongue against me; it is surprisingly cool against my hard cock. I shudder and he swallows me slowly. I am gasping and he holds very still, until I think I have regained control, found some equilibrium in the intense pleasure his mouth is affording me. As soon as I find this place he moves back, scraping his teeth along me, making me hiss and moan. I twine my fingers in his hair and he puts a hand on my stomach to steady himself, he wants this at his pace. Slowly, inexorably, exquisitely torturing me he draws me along like a tune on his violin. I forget about the case, forget about everything but his soft lips, his wet, merciless tongue, his maddening, electrifying humming as he moves against me.

"Oh god, Sherlock, oh god." Up and up and up until I am a thin, white hot line of pleasure. I crash into orgasm feel myself thrusting into him and he hollows his cheeks and the pressure is unbearably sweet.

Afterwards I lie there panting. My body is thrumming with electricity and I'm fighting for breath and the blood is beating loudly in my head. He slides along the sofa, his head next to mine, he kisses me gently.

"Sherlock?" I twist so I can see him, he opens one eye.

"Mmm?" his mouth smirks.

"Donovan was right wasn't she? You really do get turned on solving crimes don't you?" he chuckles.

"Whatever makes you say that, John?"

**Interesting how it works he? I had thought that the sex in this chapter would be Lestrade and Art but it just didn't happen with them. THEN Sherlock got all clever and decided he wanted to make John come. Sometimes I think I have no control over these boys whatsoever. Not long left now. Excited to get on to the next story. Let me know what you're thinking now. Its fun! **

**I love the Baker Street Irregulars. You make my day when you review. PrincessNala (still figuring it out?) and Peachsilk (KMC fuelled writing I think is the best sort.) Verityburns (smutty taxi drive please and can I just say ...Frankenstein! TWICE!) Darmed (sending you good luck and love) Clubba Bear ( tell your landlord, thanks for Spectre Inspector, a stroke of genius) , 2cajuman2,Aelfric's cat ,Mrs winny and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll, thegeekyprincess (I'm thinking I'll get a review full o guesses? ) and Flabagash and new girls afrieal, Dead Air Space, Melissa Ivory, staceuo (compared me with Rowling eek and is **_**very**_** invested in J/S), foxfire222 and Sapphykins! Thanks for your help, support and general all round loveliness! **

**Love to Reggie for everything. **


	20. Solved

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

When Sherlock sends John to get me it's nearly six o clock. He wants us to interview one of the workers at the lab above Phillip Bannister's office. I'm not sure if this lab will still be open or how he chose this worker but he's told us to go, so go we must.

So John and I get out of the cab and we're just about to head into the reception of the town house which is home to Bannister's business and the chemists upstairs. I grab John's arm.

"What's the deal here John? How does Sherlock know this woman will have anything to do with this poisoning?" I know I sound gruff but I was looking forward to a quiet evening with Art. John frowns like he expected me to already know the answer. This is something I've seen in Sherlock, this idea that everyone shares your knowledge and there's no need to tell them by boring methods like conversation. It's interesting that John is now also joining this line of thought.

"She's the only woman who works here. As poison in a woman's method and we think Jennifer Samuels is involved it seems logical that she would have chosen a woman to help her out." He looks at me like he hasn't even questioned his brilliant boyfriend's reasoning. I nod; feel slightly consoled that now I know what at least we're doing.

"So, we've no evidence that this woman has done anything yet" John shakes his head, licks his lips.

"No, but we know the tin and the paper were both tampered with at this lab."

"We do? How do _we_ know that?" I can't help the mutinous tone which creeps into my voice. Sooner or later every case with Sherlock has me asking a question like this. John grins, obviously realising the same thing.

"Oh, right. Sorry. Well, the paper the mints were wrapped in wasn't the original paper. It's different from Sherlock's tin which Bannister gave to him. And the only place that's had any delivery of this paper is this lab. Very coincidental don't you think?" I nod. Yes, very coincidental but they didn't bank on Sherlock Holmes being on the case.

"Ok, let's do it. Good cop or bad cop?" I ask, John chuckles.

"How about bad cop and the muscle? Like last time?" He grins and I laugh, he has a point.

Alice Packham is wearing a pink lab coat. It's shocking pink and the pocket has some kind of sequins sewn onto it. I'm sure that breaks some health and safety regs but I can't remember what they are so I don't mention it. There's also the fact that this woman is as hard as nails.

Her dyed red hair is scraped back and she's taken on the cap she was wearing to keep it out of the way. It's shiny and sleek but there's a harshness about the colour which is mirrored in her startling make up. Dark eyes are emphasised by even darker eye shadow and her eyes are ringed with black kohl. Her lips are a smear of red, she's clearly not had chance to reapply since lunch. Her nails are short and devoid of varnish, more regulations I think, but they show the tell tale signs of red varnish recently removed.

"Can I smoke?" She asks, eyeing John and me like we're just another bullet point on a list of a disappointing day. John looks at me and I shake my head.

We're in the staff rest room, no smoking signs prominently displayed about the walls and I wonder why on earth she asked in the first place.

"So, who the fuck are you? How come you want to speak to me?" She doesn't look away as she speaks. She pierces first John and then me with a baleful stare.

"I'm with Scotland Yard. Inspector Lestrade." I show her my warrant card. I nod to John. "He's with me." John stares her down. It always surprises me when I see this side of him. The soldier.

Alice Packham sneers her lip and looks at us from the feet up before dismissing us with a toss of her head.

"Have you seen these before? John gets a box of mints out of his pocket and passes them to me, he hasn't spoken yet, does this mean he's bad cop? I take the mints and shake the tin.

She shakes her head but her eyes say something quite different. She even scratches her nose for god's sake, I mean, that's body language 101 for lying. I glance at John, he's seen it too.

"No, never seen them before." Her accent is Glaswegian; she's doing nothing for the city's reputation. I sigh, why can't people just tell the truth?

"Look, Alice, I can either listen to the words you just used or I can pay attention to the fact that your body language clearly says you know what we're looking for. So, can we stop the messing about and get on with it?"

Her eyes go wide and she licks her top lip. Flaky lipstick adheres to her tongue and she drinks the water she has brought with her. She doesn't say anything "Ok, let's try this time. What about this woman? Familiar?" I show her the picture of Miss Samuels. She looks at me, right in the eye. Then she looks at the picture, her expression dismissive.

"Nope." She sounds bored; she rests her elbow on the table, chin in her hand. I sigh again, roll my eyes to John. He gestures with his hand for the tin, it's the sort of thing you see Bruce Lee do when he's challenging an entire dojo to a fight. I smile, pass him the tin.

I watch, we both watch; Alice's eyes big and round behind their harsh make up, as he prises open the lid. He puts on a pair of black leather gloves from his pocket. He picks out one round mint, holds it up to the light. Then, in a flash, he grabs Miss Packham's hair and holds the mint in front of her mouth. Her nostrils flare and she tries to scoot back on her chair. John's hand moves from her ponytail to the back of the chair. He grips it tightly, holding her in place. I try not to laugh. He's a clever bastard.

"My friend is right isn't he? If you don't know this woman, if you've never seen these mints before you won't mind trying one will you?" John's hand moves nearer with the white ball, her lips flinch back.

"Shall I?" he asks, voice hard. I raise an eyebrow at Alice.

"Well? Shall we all play nicely now?" she sighs and nods, careful to stay away from the mint in John's hand. John stands back, dropping the mint back into the tin and screwing on the lid.

"So?" I prompt; waving a hand to imply she should keep talking if she doesn't want John to force feed her. She sighs, pinches her nose with her fingers. When she speaks her eyes don't leave the table top.

"I know what's in those mints. I put it on the tin and the paper. But I don't know who that woman is. Honestly, never seen her before in my life."

I look at John, he shrugs. I can't tell what the truth is anymore.

"So, the mints. How did you get the poison and who asked you to dose the tin and the paper?" I sit back in my chair, fold my arms. John sits back down on the chair he's borrowed from another table. Alice Packham seems to realise the game is up. She sighs.

"Look, this bloke met me after work one night, here on the stairs." She gestures behind her to the door which leads out of the premises of the lab and down to Bannister's rooms.

"And?" John's voice is dark. It's not a voice to argue with. Alice glances at him, the stare probably more venomous than the mints.

"And he offered me money. Lots of money, enough to get out of this stupid job, this awful city and go somewhere decent. Where the degree in chemistry I worked for was actually worth something. And I took it. You can't blame me."

"What did he ask you to do?" She bites the side of her lip.

"He gave me a substance, it was in a wax compound, and he told me he needed the bottom of this tin and the wrapping paper coated in it to a particular dosage. It was a tricky job, not everyone's good enough at converting a wax compound like that and distributing it evenly." A small tone of pride comes into her voice. She's probably a very clever woman; it's just a shame that no one recognised this in a more legitimate way.

"Did he tell you what it was? What it was for?" she shakes her head.

"No, but he did tell me I should be careful not to get any of it on my skin. I didn't ask him after that. I didn't want to know. The less I knew the better." She sighs, flops her head onto her arms on the table. "Fuck. I should have known it was too good to be true. I just wanted out you know? If it wasn't me he'd have got someone else to do it. Why shouldn't I benefit?" she's right in a way, someone else would have done it if she hadn't. But she did and so she's the one in trouble.

"So this man?" This is John, he moves his chair closer, squints at her as makes her face his gaze. "Did he come from downstairs? The solicitors?" she nods.

"Yeah, I think he was down there. I've seen him before." I look at John, he purses his lips. It looks like we have our man, our poisoner.

"Thanks Alice. Obviously we'll have to pass this on to the detectives in charge of the case." I stand up; she looks at me with dawning horror.

"What? You mean you aren't on the fucking investigation? Oh fucking hell!" she kicks the chair and storms out of the room. John grins.

"Better phone Sherlock."

"John, are those the actual poisoned mints?" I gesture to the tin in his hand. He looks down at them.

"No, these are Sherlock's pack. But she didn't know that." They're getting as bad a s each other.

Dr John Watson's POV

The cab pulls up and Sherlock flings open the door.

"Get in!" he urges, waving us to hurry up. I clamber in beside Lestrade and wonder what the rush is about. Sherlock's eyes are bright, like he's on something. I stopped worrying about his drug habit a long time ago. Drugs only interest him when he's nothing better to do. Our feet haven't touched the floor in the last few months.

"So, what's the rush? We were just coming back to tell you that Alice Packham put the finger on Phillip Bannister." Geoff says as we are hurled around corners. Obviously Sherlock's told the cabbie to get a move on.

"Phillip..?" Sherlock laughs, really laughs. I look at Geoff and Geoff pulls a face to indicate that, this time, Sherlock really has lost his mind. I shrug. I have no idea what is going on and it's a feeling I'm getting used to recently.

The cab pulls up outside of the hotel and Sherlock opens the door. Laura runs out to meet us.

"She called!" she says in a rush. Sherlock nods once and grabs Geoff's arm.

"Geoff, stay with Laura, we need someone at base. Make sure Art's ok." Geoff is manhandled out of the door and then Sherlock looks at Laura.

"How long ago?" Laura frowns.

"About ten minutes after you left!" he nods and slams the door, tells the cabbie to go.

"Sherlock, what's going on? Where are we going?" He turns to me and I can see the excitement in his posture, his hands clasped over his knees, his wide eyes, his pulse jumping in his neck.

"You were followed. I knew you would be. The other of our two accomplices in poison followed you to the labs. I had Laura phone a friend and get them to keep an eye on your stalker." I frown and try to reason this out.

Two poisoners in league? One of them followed us and one of Laura's friends followed them? I didn't know Laura had friends in Edinburgh? So Phillip Bannister has an accomplice? My mind is spinning, names and faces, alibis and motives swirl in my head. We pull up outside a familiar building. Sherlock throws open the door and pulls me onto the road. He's racing for the door as soon as he hits the pavement.

"Hang on!" I gasp and he turns briefly. His eyebrows knotted together and his mouth a thin line of impatience.

"What?" he waves an arm as though to ask what on earth could I be asking questions for when he clearly has somewhere to be. I roll my eyes.

"This is Jennifer Samuel's apartment building! Is she in danger?" he looks at me, those pale blue eyes intense.

"The gravest danger." He says and then turns and runs inside, coat tails flying like some gothic hero. I follow him, all too aware of my less glamorous appearance.

"Lift or stairs?" he asks me, spitting the words out.

"Stairs." I say, without knowing what choice I am making. He nods once and goes to the lift and begins to bully the light up button. I turn and run to the door which leads to the staircase.

All the way up the plush, purple carpeted steps I wonder what is going on. My brain is working harder than my leg muscles as I try to piece things together. There are two poisoners; Jennifer Samuels is in grave danger. Phillip Bannister paid Alice Packham to poison the tin. I'm none the wiser.

I burst out of the door just as I see Sherlock kneeling at Jennifer Samuel's door. In his hands are three fine silver picks. He is intensely concentrating on picking the lock. He's getting nowhere. I run over and slam my foot just under the handle. There is a crash and the door gives way. He grins up at me and is off the floor in seconds, racing into the apartment before me.

At first I can see nothing wrong but then I see the still form of Jennifer Samuels slumped on the sofa. Sherlock is by her side and is checking the corners of her mouth, slapping her face lightly with one long pale hand. Her eyelids flutter. I dash over to her limp form and check her pulse. Her heartbeat is faint and weak.

"Oh no you don't, Jennifer! You don't get to escape so easily! Tamsyn told Laura you were here, that you'd followed John and Lestrade to the lab! Quick John! In my pocket, the test tube!" I rummage in his pocket, trying not to think about what the other objects in there could be and find my fingers against the shiny sides of the test tube. I pull it out and hand it to him. There is a clear liquid in the bottom of the tube which could be water. He snatches it out of my hands.

Even though the atmosphere is electric Sherlock's hands are stone still as he flips off the cap with his thumb and pours the liquid between Jennifer's lips. He holds the back of her head cradled in one hand and he props her mouth open with the glass rim of the tube and tips the entire contents into her throat. She chokes a little and he holds her upright. I watch as the chemical takes effect in her body.

Her eyelids flicker erratically and I rush over and check her pulse. Steadily the beat quickens but it's still shallow, she isn't out of the woods yet.

"She needs help. I'm calling an ambulance." I tell him as I get the phone out and start to dial. His hand snakes out and knocks it from my hands. It skids across the room. What the fuck is he doing?

"Stop! She needs to tell us what happened before we can allow anyone to see her!" I frown. What is he talking about?

"Jennifer, can you speak?" He is right in her face, enunciating carefully. Her eyes open and close and she nods.

"Who commissioned the poisoned tin?" He demands. I can't believe he's asking her this and she could be dying.

"Sebastian." She whispers. I feel my eyes go wide, Sebastian poisoned his own mints? Why would he do that? So the man on the stairs who propositioned Alice Packham was Sebastian not Bannister! Of course! Sebastian was Bannister's client! Of course he'd be in the building from time to time.

"Who were they meant for Jennifer?" She doesn't answer and Sherlock shakes her. I grab his arm and he shrugs me off.

"Lestrade." she mumbles, head falling forward, her neck is too weak to hold the weight.

"And puffer fish poison to pin the murder on Art?" She nods, eyes rolling. I am open mouthed. This is a scenario I hadn't imagined.

Sherlock bends his head nearer to her lips.

"But Sebastian didn't get chance to give them to Lestrade did he? He went to do it but then he heard them in their hotel room and he couldn't do it could he Jennifer?" She shakes her head. I have a vivid image in my head. The image of Sebastian Faulkes outside Art and Geoff's room, listening to them having sex, realising that this wasn't some sort of a fling after all, that Art wasn't coming back this time.

"He... he... took them himself." She moans, leaning forward and being sick all over the carpet. The smell from her vomit is chemical and unnatural.

"Water John! A glass of water!" I run to the cabinet and grab a glass and fill it at the tap in the kitchen. when I come back Sherlock snatches it from me and wets her lips with the cool water.

"So, Sebastian killed himself. How did you know Jennifer? How did you know to come and get rid of the CCTV?" She moans and retches, but nothing comes up this time. Sherlock gives her the glass, she drinks.

"He called me... told me what he was doing. I got there as soon as I... oh god." Now she's crying.

"And you were too late?" He questions, more gentle now. She nods. "Did you take the note?" she nods again.

"But why? Why did you hide his suicide?" I ask desperate to understand. Before she answers I know the reason.

"Because I knew Art would blamed. He ruined Seb's life. He deserved it." Sherlock lies her down on the sofa and turns to me. The light has gone from his eyes and he looks pale, drawn.

"Phone the ambulance John. She won't die now but she needs medical attention."

**One chapter left and we're done here! On to the next one! Race you there! Hope this satisfied all your curiosities!**

**I do so love the Baker Street Irregulars. You make my day when you review. PrincessNala and Peachsilk (thank you for being there for me.) Verityburns (I love having you as my writing buddy) Darmed (sending you good luck and love) Clubba Bear, 2cajuman2,Aelfric's cat ,Mrs winny and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll, thegeekyprincess (you can stop guessing now) and Flabagash and new girls afrieal, Dead Air Space, Melissa Ivory, staceuo, foxfire222 and Sapphykins! Thanks for your help, support and general all round loveliness! **

**Love to Reggie for everything. **


	21. Mckay,  the Marquis and Ma'am

Inspector Geoff Lestrade's POV

I get a call from John about two hours after I leave them in the cab. He speaks in short sentences.

"Geoff, call Billy, tell him to reveal the poisoned tin. Then call McKay. Get him to come over. He's solved it." I mumble something and he hangs up. I look at my phone and then at Art and the girls.

"He says he's solved it." I tell them, registering their looks of surprise and then I text Billy. I leave it ten minutes and then dial the number of the station.

"McKay." His voice is gruff, tired. I feel bad for him, slogging away at a case that it took Sherlock this long to solve. I wonder if people feel sorry for me sometimes. I sigh.

"Lestrade. Just had a call from Sherlock, can you come over? He's got some new leads." I don't just tell him the smart arse amateur from London has solved the case. He can work that bit out himself. He sighs again.

"I'm coming over. Just got to talk to labs first." That'll be Billy, I grin to myself.

"Ok. See you." I hang up. The rest of the gang look at me. None of us expected this to end tonight; this is how it always is with him. Fireworks, the big bang, sudden, crashing.

"Well," says Rose standing and walking to the drinks cabinet. "I need a whisky. Anyone?" There is a unanimous show of hands. She smiles.

Another hour later and McKay arrives with a couple of officers and he doesn't look too happy when he realises we're all waiting for Sherlock to arrive.

"Where is he?" He snaps, pale eyes searching the room like we've got Sherlock under the bed. I doubt he'd fit anyway.

"He's on his way." I nod, hoping I'm right. "Was the traffic bad?" I look at my watch to indicate that this looks like McKay took his time getting here. This must be why he's so annoyed, he's still waiting for Sherlock and he dawdled deliberately.

"No. I just came from the labs and had a call from the hospital on the way here. The lab geeks have worked out how the poison was administered. And Jennifer Samuel's has just been brought in, suspicion of tetrodotoxin ingestion but she'd been administered the antidote." He raises an eyebrow. "Would you know anything about this?" I shake my head and hope I look convincing.

At that moment the door is flung wide and Sherlock strides in, holding the porter by the arm. He lets go of him as we all step back. Behind him I see John; his face is ashen and drawn. It looks like he's had quite a night.

"Ah! Inspector McKay! A joy and pleasure as always. Right!" He rubs his hands and throws himself onto an armchair, long legs folded over the arm. "Shall we?" he gestures to the porter who is looking around like a trapped rat. Sherlock leans in his chair and pokes the wretched man with a pointed foot.

"Er, well. I er... turned off the electricity to the CCTV cameras on the night that bloke was killed. I didn't want to! I mean, that Miss Samuels made me do it! She said she'd get me fired. I can't afford to lose another job! Oh god." He puts his head in his hands and actually starts to cry. Sherlock sighs, it's more of a huff actually, and pokes the man again. I'm beginning to feel sorry for him.

"And... then she came and asked me what had been happening at the hotel and..." he breaks down. Mackay looks at one of the burly men who flank him and nods towards the door. They lead the sobbing man outside.

Sherlock throws himself out of the seat, nearly tipping the armchair over.

"Yes, yes! And then he told her what we'd found out and she started to follow Lestrade and John." he points to us, just in case McKay is unsure of our identities. It's like he took a course in 'getting up the nose of the Force 101'. I look at McKay and see a familiar expression on his face.

"I know I'm going to regret this Mr. Holmes, but, why would she follow these two?" McKay rolls his eyes at his remaining officer.

"Because she knew that I was on to her! This is the name of the woman who tampered with the tin of mints by the way," he hands McKay a note which the other man doesn't even bother to read. "And then tonight she tried to commit suicide just as her friend Sebastian Faulkes did only five days earlier." He ends with a flourish and flops back down.

Suicide? What?

"Hang on Sherlock." I can't help it, I have to ask. "Faulkes killed himself? Why? To frame Art?" Sherlock smiles a slow smile.

"Yes, but that was not his original plan Geoff." I frown.

"No? Enlighten us, I can see you're dying to anyway." His quirks up the side of his mouth, I watch his left eye nearly winking shut. He's a cocky bastard but he's usually right too.

"The poison was meant for you Geoff. Puffer fish to make it look like Art's work. But he couldn't do it and he couldn't live alone so he..." he mimes popping a pill, or a mint I suppose. I rub my hand over my face.

"Bloody hell." I sit down on the sofa next to Art, who strokes my hand.

"And Miss Samuels?" I can tell McKay doesn't want to ask the question but you can't help but be impressed with Sherlock's deductions. He is amazing even though he's bloody maddening.

"He phoned her when he was dying. Told her everything. She rushed here to save him, was too late, burn the note and talked that bloke," he gestures with his thumb to the open doorway through which the police have led the porter. "Into shutting down the cameras and wiping that night's recordings." He slaps his hands together and rubs them, grinning.

"My god." Art breathes to himself. Laura and Rose are holding hands, looking scared by this brush with murder which has come so close to us all. I can't begin to think about how close it came to me.

"Right. Well, obviously Miss Samuels, Miss..." McKay scans the paper. "Miss Peckham and the porter will have to corroborate this story but... well; it seems I have a busy night ahead." Sherlock holds out his hand. He's a good sport really; I assume it's what they teach them at public school.

McKay looks at the hand and then at Sherlock. I really think he doesn't want to even touch the lanky Englishman but then he smirks and shakes the long, bony hand.

"Next time you need a holiday Mr. Holmes..." he doesn't end the sentence. Sherlock nods.

"Wales. It'll be Wales next time." McKay chuckles wryly and leaves.

There is shouting on the corridor. It's a voice which makes us all go cold. I look at the others, all our faces are tight, nervous, especially Art's. Sherlock walks to the window and looks out into the street, he checks his watch and smiles to himself.

Dr John Watson's POV

The shouting gets louder and it's obvious who it is. Geoff stands up and positions himself between Art and the door and, without meaning to, I follow suit. Laura stands and grabs her bag, rummaging in the depths of the leather for something.

The door, already open, is pushed wide so that it bangs against the small wooden doorstop and nearly comes off its hinges. It's the Marquis, Art's dad. He's still in a kilt and he's still annoyed. I wonder if he has any other moods.

"So, they let you out Arthur! Jesus, boy you're a disgrace. Prison might have knocked some sense into you anyway!" He makes for Art but Geoff is in the way. He brings up an enormous hand to grab Geoff's shoulder.

"I wouldn't do that." Sherlock's voice is cold and impeccably posh. The Marquis looks up and for a brief second he has another expression, surprise. Then this is replaced again by the more familiar rage.

"What? Who the fuck are you? Another one of my son's queers? For Christ's sake!" He spits as he turns on Sherlock, Geoff narrowly escapes being knocked into the wall by the man's swinging frame.

Now the Marquis is rounding on Sherlock. Both his hands are out and I can't decide if he's going to grab or hit him. Reflexively I check for the nearest nerve centre to paralyse if he goes any nearer. I needn't bother.

"John?" There voice at the door has a note of polite enquiry. At first I think it means me and I turn to see Mycroft, wearing golfing trousers and a pale yellow jumper, standing in the doorway. "John." I realise he's talking to Art's dad. It takes a while to register that this man has such an ordinary first name. It's ahrd to imagine we have anything in common.

The big man actually looks scared. As he turns he catches Sherlock's eye. Sherlock winks. God. Before the Marquis can react, and no doubt pound Sherlock into next week, Mycroft speaks again.

"John, just a moment of your time, please." His voice is mild, quiet and could stop a charging rhino herd. Just as well really.

The Marquis is looking at Mycroft in horror. It's like a snake and mongoose, an elephant and a mouse. Only Mycroft is the most singularly scary mouse I have ever seen. His expression, head cocked, eyebrow raised inquisitively, is one which means you are going to get the kicking of your life. And not a physical one, not the sort the Marquis is used to handing out and could no doubt survive rather well. No, this kicking involves status, humiliation and downfall. For once I decide I love Sherlock's brother.

"Mycroft?" he sounds altogether different now, more cowed, sober. Mycroft smiles brightly and saunters into the room.

"Oh, I do apologise about the attire but I thought I'd get a spot of golf in while I was in the country. Marvellous course just up the road, you know. Devilish tenth hole, mind you." He stops talking and smiles again. The only other person smiling in the room is Sherlock. Laura looks nervous and the rest of them have no idea at all as to who is this man in golfing trousers. Lestrade is frowning, looking from Mycroft to the Marquis and back again like he's watching the most surreal tennis game ever. If it is a tennis game then Art's dad is playing a champ.

"Mycroft." The big man says it again, like it might be a charm that works to banish this evil fairy back to whence he came. No such luck mate, I think to myself. Mycroft's sauntering has taken him right over to the side of the Marquis. When he puts out his hand to touch the broad muscled shoulder the Marquis actually flinches. Mycroft smiles wider and I see that shark fin circling in the water. I start to actually feel sorry for Art's dad; whatever Mycroft has in store for him is going to be bloody. The Marquis' a bully and a thug but Mycroft's a surgeon with power.

"So, as I was in the area I thought I'd pop by and see how you were all getting on. John, always a delight to see you." He smiles at me warmly, the chilly mask of affability falling for a second as he looks genuinely pleased. "Sherlock, you look well. The Edinburgh air must agree with you. And this must be Lestrade, Art, Laura and Rose." He looks them over and they nod as though he's hypnotised them all. Only Geoff frowns, I can almost see his mind racing as to the identity of our new friend. Mycroft looks at Geoff intently.

"Inspector, I think you'll find your Super has a place for a certain Mr Pickin down at Scotland Yard, oh don't worry," he holds up a hand as Geoff is about to speak. "Mr Pickin has no roots in Edinburgh, I'm sure he'll be more than happy to come home. "He smiles benevolently and Geoff just stares back. Mycroft moves on to Art.

"Oh do keep this one!" He says in a camp tone which possibly has more menace than anything he's said yet. Art smiles a small smile, unsure of where to go with the comment.

"Lady Ashton, I saw your father only yesterday. He said to give you his love and remind you that the Audi will need a service soon, fathers eh? So terribly worrying." He glances at Sherlock and a cloud passes over both of their faces. "And Rose, have you been in contact with home recently? I think you sister has a happy announcement to make next time you call." He grins and his shoulders come up slightly as though he's excited for Rose's family news. He is terribly frightening like this. He turns back to the Marquis.

"Ah! John. Now, I saw a not too distant cousin of yours a few days ago and I was telling her about what's been going on up here..." Even though we have no idea who or what Mycroft is talking about we all see the threat, hanging in the air like poisoned honey. The Marquis swallows and his face goes a sickly yellow.

"Actually we talked a lot about you. Your family, your lovely ex wife, you know, that sort of thing." Mycroft wrinkles his nose to show how trivial the conversation is but we are all feeling the arctic chill sweeping the room.

"Anyway, your not too distant cousin asked to be reminded to you and asked me to give you this." He produces a heavy, expensive looking envelope. As he passes it to the Marquis I notice there is a coat of arms on the back. The hand which comes out to take the envelope is trembling and we all watch as the Marquis, now seemingly oblivious to our presence, slits the seal with his thumb nail. He looks like he might be sick.

There is a silence as he reads the letter. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks loudly reminding me of 221b. Suddenly I really miss home. I long to be back and tucked up on the sofa watching bad detective shows.

Even though all of us are absolutely dying to know what is in the letter it's as though we can divine its contents from the expression on the big man's face. Surprise, shock and then outright horror spill over his face. I look at Sherlock, he is grinning. I look at Art, he is smirking.

The Marquis folds the letter carefully, respectfully and tries to put it in the envelope but he's shaking so badly he ends up just holding it and looking defeated. Mycroft is still smiling that genial uncle/mass murderer smile he has.

"So, that's lovely then! John? I presume you'll be popping along with me? We can have a jaunt up to your cousin's holiday home later maybe? She's dying to talk to you about grandson's wedding, very excited. Been a while coming though if you ask me." He winks conspiratorially. I suddenly realise who they are talking about. No wonder Art's dad looks scared. She's the only person who can still have you legally beheaded. You don't want to piss her off.

Mycroft gives a little wave as he leads a destroyed Marquis away.

"Bye Sherlock! John! See you in London; Daddy wants us all to have tea soon!" I wave and then realise that Sherlock is scowling, my wave slows and stops, my hand still in the air. I look at it and put it in my pocket.

There is a long silence while everyone, in their own way, ingests what just happened. Art is the first to speak.

"Well, I'm packing! We're going home! Laura have you got the car?" Laura shakes her head.

"Flying darling, but there's room for you boys?" She includes us in her glance. I look at Sherlock. He nods.

The flight home is uneventful. Everyone is too shell shocked by the week's proceedings to talk much. Art sits with Geoff; I see their hands folded together on the arm rest. Laura and Rose discuss the pregnancy they've just discovered when Rose phoned her sister, Alice, at the airport. Sherlock sleeps.

He sprawls his long legs out across the gangway, snoring gently. When he wakes up I make him eat something, he must be exhausted. He smiles as he starts to eat one of the four yoghurts he has requested from the stewardess. Then there's a cheese sandwich which he divests of its lettuce before consuming it with a glee, then a bar of chocolate and a plate of scones.

"Who is Art's distant cousin Sherlock?" I ask him as he begins the scones. He looks up at me and raises his eyebrows. I don't ask again.

At the airport we promise to meet up later in the week to just catch up. We all just need some time alone I think and Laura and Rose talk about going to the States for a family visit.

"Don't forget you said you might want to avail yourself of the facilities at my house!" Art calls as he and Geoff get into the car. The facilities? Sherlock grins and waves.

"I'll call you about getting it set up!" he laughs. I look at him. The dungeon! Oh right. Oh god.

The drive through the London streets is reassuringly protracted. The dark sky is mirrored in the puddles and the slick shiny roads. The streetlights compete with each other as to which can be the gaudiest. People hurry along, all eager to be somewhere. The cafe downstairs still has its lights on; I glance inside and see that the small tables are packed with a throng of young women. I'm about to mention this to Sherlock but he's already unlocked the door and is running up the stairs.

At 221b Mrs. Hudson has lit a fire and put milk in the fridge. Sherlock phones the Chinese and I get the plates out.

"Right, back in a minute. Are you sure you don't want to go to Clara's?" he asks as he puts on his coat. I shake my head. I'm tired and I really just want us to be alone. He nods and I hear his footsteps as he runs down the stairs.

I sit on the green sofa and just relish being home. I need a holiday, I think to myself wryly. My life's been nonstop since I met him. And to think I said nothing happens to me.

He comes back, dishing the Chinese food out unequally onto the plates until I look at him and he reverses the process, giving me much more than I need. I take the spoon and redistribute until we each have half. He grins.

"So, what's this programme we're watching?" he throws himself on the sofa, plate held high so it doesn't spill.

"Spectre Inspector," I say glancing at him sideways. He frowns.

"About ghosts? A ghostly police officer?" he adds hopefully.

"No," I shake my head as I press the button and the credits begin. A woman, lit green by a night vision camera runs screaming silently into the screen; Sherlock turns to look at me. "It's a live ghost hunting programme." He shovels a forkful of food into his mouth; I watch his perfect lips slick back on the prongs. Still chewing he answers me.

"There's no such thing as ghost John, this is going to be very disappointing."

**Well, here we are at the end! I really hope you enjoyed the mystery and I'm excited to start the next one. I might have a bit of a break between them, not long but enough to get my breath. I've got lots of exams to get my students through before the end of term. I also have a Dexter fic brewing in my head... but fear not, there will be another adventure for our boys! Thanks for your support and enthusiasm so far!**

**Oh and I know the death penalty was revoked in England but being beheaded is much more dramatic than being being banged up so I cheated!**

**Many thanks to the Baker Street Irregulars. It's been so much fun writing these stories with you. PrincessNala and Verityburns Darmed Clubba Bear, 2cajuman2,Aelfric's cat ,Mrs winny and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll, thegeekyprincess and Flabagash and new girls afrieal, Dead Air Space, Melissa Ivory, staceuo, foxfire222 and Sapphykins! You've made this such a great experience!**

**Love to Reggie for everything. **


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